A Magical Chelsie Christmas
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: It's Christmas once again, and the Carsons are getting ready as they reminisce about the past and look toward the future with hope, cheer, friendship, and a little bit of Christmas magic. Features most downstairs characters along with Sybbie, Violet and some new friends, too. Fulfills the tumblr cheerfulchelsiechristmas A-Z prompt list. Cover art designed by the FAB brenna-louise.
1. Angel

**A/N: Well, here we go! My entries for tumblr's cheerfulchelsiechristmas prompt start today with A for "Angel." I have to thank nanokouw for her support as we leaned on one another through another NaNoWriMo project, and for her encouragement and shared laughter as we seemed to unwittingly incorporate a lot of similar themes into these stories. **

**These are also unseen by anyone else, so please excuse any random typos b/c I'm AWFUL at proofreading my own stuff. **

**Now sit back with a cup of cocoa and prepare for 26 days of fluff, with spoilers from the movie and a bit of sexy times tossed in the mix here and there. **

**Happy Chelsie Christmas, lovelies. xxx**

**CSotA**

* * *

_**18**__**th**__** of December**_

The frost on the field glistens in the late-afternoon sunlight, and Elsie Carson stops beside the old fence and looks out over the land. All in her immediate surroundings is quiet and calm, standing in sharp contrast to the hustle and bustle of the house earlier that morning. With Christmas just one week away and all of the young children and their parents in residence, things have been very hectic. She breathes deeply through her nose, appreciating the crisp, clean scent that December brings. When she exhales, a puff of steam billows out before her lips before being whisked away in the wind.

Elsie tightens her scarf around her neck and walks on, suddenly impatient to be in the comfort of her own home with Charles fussing at her the moment she walks in the door. It has become his habit to do so these last couple of months; on days when his presence is not needed at the Abbey, he appears to spend his afternoons eagerly awaiting his wife's return. She often comes in and closes the door tightly behind herself, only to be greeted with a barrage of 'Welcome home!' and 'How was your day, love?', or perhaps a 'Have they all arrived yet?' More often than not, however, it's something like 'Did Mrs. Patmore send any biscuits along?'

If you'd asked her before she was married how she'd react to that type of behavior – particularly from _him _– Elsie would have huffed and rolled her eyes. She never could have envisioned him fawning over her, let alone how much she'd cherish being his wife. She put an end to his walking her to and from the Abbey on a daily basis, however, reminding him that there were other things he could be doing to keep busy and that the solitary walks often did her mind good. As the months wore on and he found ways to fill his time in retirement, that sorted itself out quite easily.

When she turns the corner, the cottage comes into view. Charles already has a soft light on in the window and it is casting a glow onto the sill.

"Hello?" She closes and locks the door behind herself, puzzled as to why her husband's deep voice isn't already filling the parlor. "Charlie?"

"Up here – just a moment!" His voice comes to her from the second floor, although it's so muffled that she wonders if perhaps he fell asleep for a bit only to be woken by her arrival. But when he descends the stairs, she understands: in his arms are two boxes, slightly dusty from sitting on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.

"Oooh, you've brought them down! Thank you, Mr. Carson." She hangs her coat, sets down her belongings, and places a kiss on his cheek when he deposits the boxes on the table.

"Your nose is cold," he observes, placing his fingertips on it for a few seconds to warm it.

"I can't imagine why," she quips.

Charles pulls his wife into a great hug, savoring the feeling of her arms wrapping around his waist and the scent of vanilla and the outdoors that permeate her hair.

"I peeked in the boxes and everything seems fine, mice be damned."

"Charles!"

He pulls away and looks at her, incredulous and hurt. "My _stocking, _Elsie. They chewed my Christmas stocking. I'll never forgive them."

"I'm working on the patch for that," she says, soothing him by rubbing her hand over his chest and hoping that he doesn't pick up on the lack of confidence she's sure is pouring off of her in waves. "Now, let's open those and finish this tree."

Charles obliges, lifting the tops off of both boxes and stepping aside as Elsie paws through the first one. They've done this once before, of course, and when their eyes meet over the table Elsie knows her husband's thoughts must reflect her own: a memory of decorating their first tree together, a process which was made much lengthier due to the telling of stories and simply learning how to enjoy being together away from the bustle of Christmas at Downton.

_Learning how to be married, too,_ Elsie thinks, and she feels a warmth spread through her that has nothing to do with the fire in the hearth and everything to do with the man standing beside her.

They add the contents of that first box to the slender tree, then step back from it to admire their handiwork.

"It looks more beautiful than last year's," Charles declares. "Do you think it's because we've taken our time, dragged it out a bit over a few days?"

"I'm not sure." Elsie doesn't say what's on her mind, that she thinks Charlie can appreciate it more because his life is quieter now, more contemplative, since he's no longer working. She reaches out to adjust an ornament that is causing its branch to droop. "There."

The corner of Charles's mouth curves up. "I knew you'd move that. Now, the angel."

Elsie returns to the box and lifts it out. "It's not like the one at the big house, is it?" She feels her husband's hands land on her hips and she leans back against his chest.

"It's _better _than that one." He reaches around her and brushes a fingertip down a slightly-broken wing, noting the thin feathers where some had fallen out over the years. "This one has history – _your _history, and Becky's. It's a special thing, this heirloom that the two of you made. It makes me wonder about the time you spent on it, about happy Christmases afterwards when one or both of you would be bubbling over with excitement for a candy stick and an orange in your stockings."

The pain is still sharp in Elsie's breast from when they visited (and had to once again _leave_) Becky at the rest home last month. She'd been so frail and slow to recognize Elsie, and the Carsons wondered if it might be the last visit they'd have before losing Becky to age and infirmity. Charles senses it, feels her grow tense in his arms, and he leans down and rests his chin on her shoulder as the words tumble from his mouth in an attempt to soothe her aching heart.

"Tell me again."

Elsie closes her eyes, remembering, the angel still in her grasp. "It was an awful snowstorm the day we made this, one of the heavy ones where just opening the door to clear the path takes Herculean effort and a good deal of time. Mam asked me to keep Becky occupied with whatever we could find."

She tilts her head to the side, straining to see her husband who in turn moves a bit and places a kiss to the tip of her nose.

"Still cold," he whispers.

"Not as much," she counters, the corner of her mouth turning up. "So I found the old doll and some feathers from a split pillow, found another dress from a different doll … Da helped with a bit of paper cone, which he attached so that we could fit it over the treetop, and there we were with a new angel for the tree."

"The eyes aren't blue," he notices. "I'm not sure why I didn't see that last year. They're green."

"My Da's eyes were green," Elsie explains, "and Becky adored him so." She remembers something else, something she hadn't told Charles last year. "The day after we finished it and got it onto the tree, Da made enough headway in the snow that Becky and I could head out and make snow angels on the path. I remember telling her they were like the angel we'd made for the tree, and she didn't understand why we couldn't just scoop them up and bring _them_ in the house, too. She tried, of course. But when the snow melted, she cried."

"Oh, the poor dear."

Elsie sighs. "Yes. But Mam reminded her that the angel on the tree wouldn't melt, and a few years later Becky made us promise to have it every Christmas. And so here it is." She looks up at her husband and smiles fondly. "I'm glad it has a tree to call home again. I never did keep one in my sitting room that was large enough to hold it."

"I'm glad, too," Charles replies quietly. "And very grateful to feel like I am, in a small way, a part of that tradition now."

Elsie's heart swells. "There's nothing small about the part you play in our family, Charles. Becky and I are all that remain of the Hughes component, so you make up a solid third of our family." She stands on her tiptoes and places a firm kiss to his lips. "Now, hold me steady so that we can put this up."

As her husband takes her hand, Elsie climbs onto the small step stool that's beside the Christmas tree. She leans forward a bit, feeling his strong, steady hands around her stomach and sides, his hold enabling her to reach with both hands for the tree itself and slide the angel over the branch at the top.

"There," she declares, stepping down again. "How does she look?"

Charles takes in the entire view: the tree with its varied collection of ornaments, some from their childhoods and others that had been gifts over the years (including one that Lady Mary had given them last year), the small electric light string they purchased two weeks ago, and the angel at the top that now completes the picture.

_Well, almost, _Charles thinks. _There's still one more surprise - if it ever arrives._

"Wonderful. The entire tree is like a story of our lives, Elsie. I never had anything like this until we were married. Well, not since I was a very small boy, anyhow."

She doesn't have to ask what he means. Charles has told her his story in bits and bobs over the course of what they now referred to as their 'twenty-five year courtship,' and she knows his childhood wasn't nearly as happy or filled with love as hers. Scottish farm life had been difficult, in many ways more challenging than the life Charles and his parents had led, but Elsie had never wondered about the depth of her parents' love for her or for Becky, and their community had always supported them all. Charles, on the other hand, had been the son of a man who'd lost his family's home and been given a new lease on life as a groomsman in Downton's stables. He'd grown up knowing his father was somewhat of an outcast, and his mother harbored a great deal of animosity about it for the rest of her life.

"I brought biscuits home," she says suddenly. "Chocolate ones tonight, and she said she'll have fresh gingerbread soon, so you should come up for a visit with the staff."

They both know she means the _children_ and not the staff, that she's referring to the afternoon when Mrs. Patmore will be baking all sorts of treats for the children to decorate for their parents and grandparents.

Charles raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Mr. Barrow agreed, just so you know," Elsie adds.

"Well, perhaps I will at that. Now, how about something to eat? I've got a stew in the oven. It won't be fancy, but it was easy and we had some things to use up."

Elsie's eyes light up. "I wondered what smelled so good, and I love it when you cook, Charlie." She pats his hand. "I'm sure it will be delicious."

"One way to find out." He steps back and packs up the boxes and paper as she heads into the kitchen to retrieve bowls, bread, and the stew from the oven.

But just before she passes through the doorway she pauses, turns, and looks up at the angel once again.

"Merry Christmas, Becky," she whispers into the empty room.

**I'd love to know what you thought! Tomorrow is Chapter 2, "Bells." xx**


	2. Bells

**A/N: As my prompts tie together as one big story, we pick up here at the end of the 18th of December. Thanks to all for the sweet reviews. xx**

**CSotA**

* * *

Much later that night, the wind whistles through the trees as Elsie sleeps. Charles, having snoozed earlier downstairs by the Christmas tree, is lying awake by her side. He attempts to read a bit, but when his wife flinches in her sleep at the light from the lamp he turns it off again quickly and retreats downstairs for a cup of warm milk, to which he adds a touch of cinnamon.

He is drowsy after drinking the milk, although not quite enough for sleep. He slowly slides back under the covers, and when Elsie shifts in her sleep again and rolls over, he maneuvers a bit to slip his arm beneath her head. She hums approvingly in her slumber, tucking herself in a little closer to him, her face nearly pressed to his chest. Charles reaches up and pulls a bit at his pajama top, keeping it from interfering with her breathing. Soon he finds himself rolling onto his side a little and wrapping his other arm around his wife, squeezing her in an awkward and not-terribly-comfortable hug. But just like with so many other things in their marriage, he finds he cannot help himself. These are stolen moments as far as he is concerned, small snippets of time when the outside world doesn't matter, when the thing he cares about more than anything else is their deep affection for one another.

More comfortable now, Charles allows his mind to drift back to that afternoon. He had his luncheon in the village at noon, not wanting to interrupt the busy atmosphere at the Abbey even for a brief visit, knowing Elsie would be unable to escape back to the cottage for lunch on their own for the remainder of the week. She had been the one to encourage him to seek out the company of Mr. Mason, which Charles had done with no small amount of pleasure; he likes the man and his quiet nature, and while their physical appearances and career paths might make them seem like very different men, Charles sees in the farmer many things that remind him of himself: Mr. Mason is reserved, observant, cognizant of the needs of the village, and attracted to maintaining a sense of tradition. Charles finds the farmer a bit too liberal in his thinking at times, but when they keep their conversation to topics which are friendlier than local and national politics, both men find their time together quite enjoyable. Of course, lately the friendlier topics seem to keep returning to Downton's resident cook and her assistant, topics about which Charles has much to say – and much to _not _say.

It was Mr. Mason who directed Charles to his next destination, truth be told, and Charles was grateful. When asked about Christmas at the cottage and the topic of holiday gifts had come up, Charles admitted that he still hadn't been able to find something special for his wife. He'd procured a gift she could wear and a gift she could read, but he was at a loss when it came to finding something a bit more personal. He'd gifted her with a luckenbooth on their first Christmas as newlyweds, but he had absolutely no idea what he could follow that with this year.

"Mrs. Adler's is the place you'll want to go," Mr. Mason advised. "Very special, her shop, and most of the things inside are handmade from all parts of England. None of that 'mass production' foolishness that so many of the stores are selling now."

Charles had no idea who Mrs. Adler was, and he was a bit uneasy when his companion explained where to find the shop.

"Surely there are no businesses down that alley," he argued, but Mr. Mason smiled at him.

"You'll be surprised, Mr. Carson, and pleasantly so, I promise you that." He smiled softly, then added, "My Sarah used to enjoy that shop very much, I remember. 'A little bit of everything, and all of it lovely.' That's how she described it to me." He shrugged. "Perhaps it'll be worth a look."

"I don't need anything extravagant," Charles replied.

"As I said, give it a look."

Elsie jerks in her sleep, murmurs something, and rolls over again; Charles sees a rare opportunity and seizes it, snuggling up behind her and pulling her close once again, placing a kiss to her hair. A few strands tickle his nose, bringing him back to his thoughts from before.

Upon leaving the Grantham Arms, Charles strolled through the village a bit, eventually happening upon the small alley he'd been searching for. He found his way down to the end and was well and truly shocked by the storefront of Mrs. Adler's place: windows decorated with beautiful Christmas scenes. One contained shelves with small houses blanketed in snow made of soft yarn, and lights twinkling above to cast a warm glow, putting one in the mind of a village slumbering on Christmas Eve. In the other window was an assortment of wooden toys – soldiers, horses, a small dollhouse, and more – and, much to Charles's surprise, a live cat slumbering in the corner of the display.

Curious, he reached for the door, and the bell's jingle reminded him instantly of the bells at Downton, not the large ones on the board downstairs but the smaller ones that were family heirlooms, things of beautiful silver and, occasionally, painted porcelain.

"Good afternoon. It's Mr. Carson, isn't it?"

Charles turned to see the woman at the counter behind where he stood. "Mrs. Adler, I presume?"

She laughed, and he saw amusement in her eyes to match her voice. "Indeed."

"I believe I'm at a disadvantage here," Charles had said, "for your name hangs on the sign above your door, but mine does not. Have we met before?"

"No, but I've seen you in the village many times, Mr. Carson, and I recall your involvement in the war memorial project. And of course, Lady Grantham speaks of you very highly."

His eyebrows went very high at that. "Surely not the Dowager Countess of Grantham? _Here?_"

"The same," Mrs. Adler confirmed. "Once in a while she finds her way to my shop, when the others don't seem to have precisely what she's seeking. Perhaps the same will be true for you today."

"Perhaps."

Mrs. Adler grew silent then, busying herself with something behind the counter, allowing Charles the freedom to peruse the shop.

He walked around, his eyes pulled in many directions as he examined a variety of gift options. There were items that were functional, kitchen-related things, and he discarded those immediately. He spent a good amount of time examining a particular jewelry case which contained an assortment of items with enamel inlay, but he'd eventually shook his head as if to clear it and reminded himself that Elsie didn't ever have the occasion to wear things of such a delicate style, that they weren't compatible with her profession, nor was she the type of woman who would choose to wear something like that if they went out, even on a special occasion.

_And for those occasions, _he reminded himself, _she'll likely wear the luckenbooth, _which she'd been so enamored with last Christmas.

Moving on, Charles selected two items that weren't for Elsie but which he knew she'd appreciate having for the children, and deposited them on the counter.

"I sense impatience in you, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Adler said quietly. "Perhaps you'll find what you seek in the back corner."

She pointed and he followed the direction of her finger, seeing the display in question. He'd have missed it entirely had she not pointed it out, but when he turned to thank her, she seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

"How …?" He heaved a sigh and turned back to the corner. He was, in a word, enchanted by the items he found on the display, and when his eyes landed on a particular set, he knew instantly it was what he wanted for Elsie. He picked one up and ran his finger along the smooth carving.

"They're perfect," he murmured, and he brought them to the counter and had them wrapped, added to the bag containing the other two things, and paid the shopkeeper.

"She'll love them, Mr. Carson. Functional and beautiful, but not ostentatious or inappropriate. One-of-a-kind – or rather, _two _of a kind. But you'll never find another set like them."

"Thank you, Mrs. Adler," he replied, and he tugged on the brim of his hat as he bade her goodbye.

It's only now, as he lies in bed with his arms wrapped around his wife and his nose buried in her hair, that the thought occurs to him: How had Mrs. Adler known the gift he'd been seeking would be for his wife? As his mind replays the time he spent in the store, everything seemed almost ... well, _magical_ to him.

He huffs, stifling a laugh at his own expense. _It's not Christmas magic, you old fool, _he tells himself firmly, _just a kind woman in a hidden shop._

_Still …_

He thinks of the small box, hidden away at the back of his desk drawer downstairs, and smiles.

Elsie mutters something else in her sleep, and he tips his head to better hear her.

"'S'bell, Charlie. I've'tae go." Her words are all blended together, but he catches the general drift. His lips curve up at the brogue that always creeps back into her speech as she sleeps, and he wonders fleetingly if tomorrow will be the day he lets her know tat she talks in her sleep, or if he'll keep that sweet, cherished secret just a little bit longer. He's sure she'll be horrified by it, although he can rarely make much of what she says anyhow.

He yawns and looks out the bedroom window, seeing the branches bend in the wind and seeing, as if by magic, the first small snowflakes of the season blowing on by.

As he finally falls off to dream, the sound of the bell at Mrs. Adler's twinkles again in the back of his mind.

**_TBC_**


	3. Candles

**A/N: ****Small detour into "M" territory, but it's brief and not explicit and I don't think the story warrants a rating change for it. Just FYI. There will be a couple of those over the course of the month.**

**Special thanks to all the guest reviewers to whom I cannot reply personally. Feel free to drop me a PM so that I can rectify that. X**

* * *

_**19th of December**_

It's still dark outside when Charles wakes. He slips from the bed as quietly as he can and practically tiptoes to the bathroom so as not to wake Elsie. When he gets back to the bedroom just a few minutes later, however, the room is lit by the soft glow of the oil lamp on Elsie's bedside table.

He climbs back under the covers and she's instantly at his side, snuggling up.

"You're so warm," she murmurs.

Before he can reply, her hands have slipped underneath his pajama shirt and she's lightly scratching his chest and nuzzling the small bit of skin that's peeking out from where he'd unbuttoned the top. His heart does a little flip; she rarely reaches for him first, but it has been known to happen.

"Elsie?"

She shakes her head, still so uncomfortable with the words, with requesting that which she so desperately needs at times. Marriage has opened up an entirely new world of intimacy for her – and for him, she realizes – but she lacks the necessary vocabulary to describe most things, and she _certainly_ lacks the confidence to ask for it. She accepts that a large part of it is societal: it simply wasn't seen as ladylike to ask for such things when Elsie was younger, let alone to truly enjoy them.

But she does enjoy them. Very much. It costs her a great deal to say it, however, even if only to her husband.

He feels her lips at his chin, and then she reaches her arm around him and her fingertips brush his shoulder blades. Trailing them up and down and then back around, she manages to undo the rest of the buttons on his pajamas before she lifts herself up on her elbow and places soft kisses to his collarbone.

"It's late," he says, and his voice seems too loud for the quiet of their room.

"I don't think I care."

He can't complain about her attentions, but the practical side of his mind knows she needs to be up in a few short hours for what will certainly be a long day at work.

Her kisses have moved down his chest.

Charles is happy to oblige, to indulge his wife this one time when he so often is the one to initiate their intimacies. It had been a tricky couple of months after the honeymoon in Scarborough (where everything had seemed so easy and, he thinks happily, _magical_) before they managed to sort those things out, time for him to learn how to please a wife who was so reluctant to tell him what to do … and vice versa, if he's being truly honest.

However, it was also a sharp learning curve when they discovered that sometimes, despite the best of intentions and the deepest of desires, things don't always work as they wish they would, and this appears to be turning into one of those times.

They _have_ figured out ways around that, though. His hand drifts to her thigh, caressing it gently as their lips meet.

"Would you like me to ...?" The rest goes unspoken, but she understands.

"Yes," she whispers, so quietly she's not sure he's heard her. She licks her lips and, as he touches a particularly sensitive spot, she moans much more loudly.

"Oh, Charlie," she breathes. "_Please_."

The last coherent thought she has is how the light from the lamp, flickering on the wall, reminds her so much of the candle that would sit on her bedside table at the Abbey all those years ago, when her only companions in the night were her thoughts of the butler who resided down the corridor.

Having him by her side is unbelievably better.

* * *

Their morning is necessarily rushed after Elsie slept as late as time would allow, but they manage to sit for ten minutes in order to have a couple pieces of toast and some tea before she heads out.

"I'll walk you up today, I think," Charles says.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather relax here?" She smirks at him. "You must be tired, although I'm not sorry about that."

"Not terribly," he replies, smiling back. "I am sure, if you wouldn't mind the company."

"Of course not."

Charles finishes his tea, stands, and stretches. He brings his dishes to the sink and sets them in the basin before heading to the parlor.

"We don't have candles," he calls to her.

"That's because we purchased the lights," she replies, and she wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

"I know we have the lights, but the absence of the candles is bothering me a bit, I think."

"Do you think they're a good idea? The room isn't that big, Charlie." She swallows the last of her own tea and brings her own things to the kitchen. "That was the exact reason we got the lights," she adds quietly, but loudly enough that she knows he can hear her.

"I know it was," he replies thoughtfully. But then he examines the tree and reaches out to test a couple of the branches. Standing back, he assesses the distance from the tree to their various pieces of furniture, and especially the distance from the tree to the wall.

"If we're careful and attentive, we'd probably be alright. Perhaps just for Christmas night."

He seems pensive and quiet as Elsie rinses their dishes and put them on the wooden rack to dry. She finds him in the parlor, still staring at the tree, and clears her throat on her way behind him. A brush of her hand brings him out of his reverie, and he moves to help her with her coat.

"What's the real reason you asked about the candles, Charlie?"

He sighs. "Me being sentimental, I suppose."

She raises her eyebrows at him, a perfect imitation of the look she so often receives.

"I know, I know," he mutters. "And you're right. We don't really need them anymore, not with those fancy electric lights we have now. It's just all so _different_ than it used to be. I'm not sure if I like that, truth be told."

"You don't say," Elsie replies wryly. "Charles Carson, resistant to modernization."

"Don't tease me."

"It's not really teasing if it's the truth, Charlie. I don't judge you for it; I accept this about you and love you for it."

He grumbles incoherently as he puts on his own coat and buttons it up, but he knows she's telling the truth; she _does_ accept and love him, and she seems to find millions of ways to remind him of that very fact. He compares it to the frequency with which he wonders what in the world he ever did to deserve her.

Unaware of his musings, Elsie pulls the door closed behind them and locks it, depositing the key in his coat pocket since he'll be returning before her. She takes his arm and gives him a good squeeze. "Thank you for walking me up today. It's good to have you with me on occasion."

They walk for a bit in companionable silence, but it isn't long before Charles returns to the topic of the candles.

"When I was small, Christmas wasn't terribly magical."

Elsie hums; she knows this about his past and wonders where his mind has been wandering today.

"We didn't have much," he adds, "and the secret of Father Christmas was made clear to me at a very young age."

"Oh, that's a bit sad, isn't it? I was young, too, when I found out. But of course we kept it all up for years for Becky."

He pats her hand. "And then, when I went into service, of course there was precious little magic then, and quite a lot of work."

Elsie nods, not entirely sure where he's headed with all these words; it is so unlike her Charlie to wax poetic about the past or to ponder things that were said and done so long ago.

"But the candles …" He sighs. "Those were always magical to me no matter the year or the place. The bringing in of something a bit bright and warm during dark, cold, long nights." He glances at her and notices she's watching him, her eyes bright with love and a not a small amount of understanding, and she smiles warmly at him.

"And you'd like that back, even if only for one magical Christmas night. Charlie, I find that perfectly normal, understandable, and _lovely._"

The smile he gives her in return is worth a great deal to Elsie on that cold winter morning, and she knows she will carry its warmth with her as she goes about her day.

_TBC_

* * *

**I'd love to know what you thought!**


	4. Dancing

**With my ongoing thanks for those of you who are sending me such kind messages of review and support. xxx**

**CSotA**

* * *

Elsie's day is proving to be extraordinarily long. She hadn't expected much else, but although she'll never admit it aloud, she is beginning to feel her age. The allure of retirement is something she lives with daily now, and while Charles hadn't taken well to it at the outset of his own, he is certainly enjoying being retired now.

_Sometimes he even has a bit of a lie-in._ Reminding herself of this fact isn't helping.

Their little midnight interlude isn't helping her fatigue, either, but _that _was worth more than being bright-eyed any day of the week. Charlie was particularly attentive to her last night, so much so that she wonders if there might be something beneficial about having a few hours' sleep before they-

The knock on the door is startlingly loud, and Elsie glances at her clock, horrified to realize she lost track of a significant amount of time due to her daydreaming.

"Come in!"

Thomas enters her sitting room and closes the door behind himself, something which he almost never does.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Barrow?"

"Mrs. Hughes," he begins quietly, glancing at the door to be sure it isn't opening again behind him. "I – I have something of a favor to ask you."

Elsie watches as he presses his lips together tightly, a sign of either nervousness or mischief. She doubts that it's mischief today.

"I'm all ears," she says, waving at him to take a seat.

"Well, you see, I wondered … I've been invited to London," he says haltingly. "By a friend. For Christmas night, actually. For a party, of sorts. I could never be away for the entire day itself, but as the family's celebration is on Christmas Eve, and as they're expecting no extra guests the following day, I wondered if I might try to go. That is, I wondered if you'd mind overseeing things here by yourself. It would only be for the afternoon and evening, and Andrew can manage with help from a footman. Or perhaps Mr. Carson might be willing to be here in my place if the need arose?" He takes a deep breath, waiting.

"London," Elsie repeats, a faint smile coming to her lips. "I think I understand. And I wouldn't mind at all, Mr. Barrow. As you've said, it'll be just the family and the children, and Lord and Lady Hexham don't really require much at all from us, of course. And I doubt we'd need to call on Mr. Carson, although if I may say so, your willingness to do so speaks volumes of the importance of this event for you." She nods firmly, decided. "I think it's a splendid idea for you to be able to spend the holiday with your friend."

He hears a slight hitch in her voice just before the word 'friend' but ignores it. If there's anyone in the house Thomas trusts to keep his secrets, it's Mrs. Hughes. She had, after all, discovered _this_ one many years ago. And since that other incident at the nightclub ...

Well.

"I'll be sure to be back in plenty of time to oversee the family's breakfast."

"I would expect nothing less."

Thomas claps his hands over his knees. "Alright, then, I think that's it." He looks up, his eyes meeting hers, unwavering. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. So much. It means a great deal to me to have your help."

Elsie smiles at him. "I understand. You're welcome, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas gets up to leave, but when he opens the door, Elsie stops him with four quietly spoken words.

"Will there be dancing?"

The butler turns to her. "I'm sorry? Dancing?"

"At your Christmas celebration," she clarifies. "Dancing."

For a fleeting moment, Thomas wonders if she _did _hear something about the debacle at the nightclub during the royal visit, but her expression seems innocent enough when he examines her features.

"I'm not sure," he says hesitantly. "It's a dinner party, but they may have some other things planned."

Elsie nods thoughtfully, pretending to examine a speck of lint on her black skirt.

"I hope there is, Mr. Barrow. Dancing is … Well, it's quite enjoyable with the right people."

"So it is, Mrs. Hughes," he agrees, his heart giving a bit of a flutter. "Will we see you at dinner this evening, or are you heading home?"

"No. I'll be heading home, I think."

Thomas smirks at her, but his eyes are kind. "Perhaps you'll have a little dancing of your own?"

She laughs, surprised at the boldfaced suggestion - although on the other hand she supposes that she, too, has been bold during this conversation. "On a regular night at home?" Elsie replies. "Oh, Mr. Barrow, I don't think so."

"Well, you've got a gramophone, haven't you?"

"Yes …" she replies slowly.

"Then I'd say all you need is a record and a willing partner. Certainly you can find each of those things back at your cottage."

He turns and leaves the room, and Elsie sits with her thoughts for quite a few moments before she gets back to her work. She realizes their conversation had been turned around on her and she didn't even realize it was happening. It makes her wonder if she's losing her edge, which makes her think again that perhaps the time _is _near when she'll be discussing her own retirement with her Ladyship.

* * *

Elsie walks home more swiftly than usual, grateful that the pathways and roads are clear of any ice and mess. Mr. Barrow's words keep tumbling over and over in her mind. She won't share their entire conversation with Charles – not tonight, anyhow – but she'll most definitely suggest that they pull out the gramophone and listen to some music. She thinks she'll even let him select what they put on. It seems foolish to have that beautiful gift from their wedding and never to use it at all. It had been so very generous of the family, after all.

When she arrives, Charlie is waiting at the door. He greets her with a rather firm, passionate kiss as soon as she walks inside and takes her hat, coat, gloves, and handbag and puts each where they belong. The house smells of the casserole she knows is in the oven, along with a faint scent of something sweet that she can't quite identify.

"What's all this?" she asks her husband, but he merely takes her hand and leads her to the table.

"All this is dinner, and then I have a bit of a surprise for you."

Her eyes widen. "Do you? So close to Christmas? What have I done to deserve this?"

Charles takes the casserole from the oven and sets it on the table, and he sits as Elsie begins plating their food. A quick scan of the kitchen through the doorway enables her to identify the sweet scent she picked up on before.

"Charlie? You didn't _make_ a cake, did you?" She definitely spies one in the kitchen, but she can't tell what kind and she knows her husband isn't quite skilled enough in the kitchen for any complicated sort of baking.

"I did not," he agrees. "But I did purchase one when I was in the village today. The icing seems particularly strong smelling; I'll have you know I didn't taste a morsel, either."

"That's some reserve you've shown. You know, Charlie, I _feel _like I'm home, but there are so many unusual things happening at once that I'm not quite certain," she teases.

"Not that many, surely," he says, taking his plate and giving her a nod of thanks. "I do sometimes manage a small meal, and it's not totally unheard of to have a bit of a pudding after."

"And a rather intense kiss the minute I pass through the door, no questions fired at me, _and_ a surprise for later?"

Charles takes a forkful of his dinner, nodding approvingly at the taste. He wipes at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "And a surprise for later. And I don't always fire questions at you."

"Most days." She blows on her food a bit before putting it in her mouth. "Oh, Charlie, this is really very good!"

"Thank you. I'll have you know that no cursing was involved in its preparation."

They eat in a companionable silence, smiling at one another now and again, each in anticipation of the surprise Charlie has planned – Elsie trying to sort out what he could possibly have done, and Charles hoping that it will be as well received as he has hoped. The cake is lovely, although a bit heavy on the icing, but of course not quite as good as anything Mrs. Patmore might have prepared. Still, it's the thought that counts, and Elsie is rather impressed at all of the thought her husband seems to have put into making her evening a bit easier.

They clear the table together and Charles heads into the parlor to get his surprise out while Elsie finishes the washing.

"You've already done most of it!" She's rather shocked; her Charlie has come quite a long way in terms of assuming some of the cooking when she spends the day at work, but she usually comes home to a pile of dirty things waiting for her in the sink.

"I didn't want you in there forever," he explains, rejoining her in the kitchen. He begins to rub at her shoulders, massaging them gently as she rinses the wash basin.

"Ohhhh, that feels wonderful," she practically purrs. "If that's my surprise, you've done remarkably well."

He leans around her and kisses the shell of her ear, eliciting a very different sound from her.

"It wasn't, but I'll remember that in the future. Now," he says, taking her hand again, "come."

Elsie obliges, following him back into the parlor, her expression turning to one of almost shock when she spies everything he set up while she did the dishes. The first thing she sees is the wine on the table, which clearly he'd opened earlier so it could breathe. Their glasses are now filled and sit waiting for them. But the _other _item, the one that sits to the side of the settee, is the one that truly has her wondering what on earth is happening.

"You – You've – You've got the gramophone out. But how …?" Elsie is at a loss.

Charles looks at her curiously. "How … what?"

"Mr. – Did Mr. Barrow telephone you?" She shakes her head, trying to fathom the reason behind the incredible coincidence.

"No," Charles replies slowly, clearly confused. "What's he got to do with anything?"

Elsie takes a deep breath. "Nothing. It's just that we were talking about them earlier, and dancing, and how we own one …" She stops speaking; even to her, it isn't making much sense.

"Well, that is strange," he muses. He reaches for their glasses, handing her one and clinking the side of his to hers. "A toast – to you, Elsie, with my thanks and love for all you do."

"My goodness," she whispers, her eyes misting as she lays her hand over her chest.

The almost mirror image of the night he proposed touches him immensely.

"I feel like there isn't much that's special that I do, though, Charlie."

But Charles is having none of it. "You still work very long hours while I waste away here. The least I can do is to provide a bit of an escape for you this evening. And now I think you should have the surprise I picked up in the village." He sips his wine, then puts the glass down.

Elsie watches in awe as Charles retrieves something from beside the gramophone. It's wrapped, but it's clearly a record. He hands it to her, and she peels away the paper.

"I thought we could sit and listen to a bit of Christmas music," he says. "You love the season so much, and there's been precious little time to enjoy it."

Elsie stands on her tiptoes and kisses him quickly. "I've got a better idea. Let's _dance._"

"Dance? We can't dance to Christmas music!"

"Oh, come on. People dance to everything nowadays."

"Yes, I know." His lips turn downward, making her laugh.

Elsie takes another sip of wine before depositing her glass next to his. She looks over the song list on the new album and then, begrudgingly, sets it aside momentarily and selects another from their collection, putting it on and getting the music started. She takes Charles's hands and leads him to an open area on the floor.

"Let's dance now, then sit and have a bit of a cuddle as we enjoy the new album. How's that?" While she's speaking, she's placing one of his hands on her hip – a bit lower than is technically necessary – and lifting the other, in which she tucks her hand. She presses closer than she normally would while dancing, and he finally relents and begins to lead her around the small room.

"I'm not sure how you came to be in charge of this situation," Charles says, looking lovingly upon her, "but I must say, this is rather nice."

"You should learn to trust me more, Mr. Carson."

The tempo becomes a bit slower, and Charles pulls his wife close. "I trust you with everything," he says simply. "Implicitly."

"Charlie …" She tilts her head back so that she can see his eyes.

"Mm?"

She shakes her head slowly. "For an old curmudgeon, you definitely know how to woo your wife."

"No stranger to romance," he reminds her, and she smiles as she shakes her head slowly.

"No," she agrees. "That you're not."

The song ends, and then another, and true to her word, Elsie then swaps the record for the Christmas one. Charles tops up their glasses and they snuggle up on the settee.

"Thank you so much for this," she says. "This is a wonderful collection of songs, and all of my favorites are on it."

He leans over and places a kiss to her hair.

"Yes," he whispers. "I noticed that when I bought it."

Elsie laughs. "Cheeky, Mr. Carson. Very cheeky."

"I have other surprises planned, I'll have you know."

She shifts in her seat. "Do you?"

"I do." And with that, he drapes his arm around her shoulders and encourages her to snuggle up against him.

The lights on the tree seem to twinkle in the room, and Elsie relaxes into her husband's body as she relishes the feeling of safety that she always has when wrapped up in his arms.

**_TBC_**


	5. Elf

**_Later that evening ..._**

The wine bottle sits empty on the table and Elsie is dozing on the settee, a small knitting project in her lap atop which her hands rest gently, the needles loosely grasped in her fingers. Charles watches her, his gaze combing her features. Loose locks of hair softly frame her face, the look not at all resembling the tightly-wrapped braid that she allowed him to remove the pins from earlier. With a happy sigh, he remembers the feel of the strands as he combed his fingers through it all. His eyes move downward, focusing on the embroidered edge of her robe, and he's grateful that they changed into pajamas earlier. He watches her breathe deeply without the constriction of the corset and wishes she'd let it go altogether as the other ladies seem to have done, both upstairs and down, but she has yet to agree.

Elsie opens her eyes with a start, as one often does when one has fallen asleep unexpectedly and somehow, in slumber, realizes it.

"What time is it?" The words are somewhat slurred, and Charles is reminded of how she was talking in her sleep the other night.

"Not too late. Just gone past ten."

"Good." She sits up slowly, twisting her neck to loosen a kink. "I'll just wash those," she adds, pointing to the glasses and decanter that sit empty on the coffee table.

"You go on ahead. I'll take care of them and see you up there."

Elsie looks pointedly at his hands, but she sees no evidence of any trembling.

"They're fine," he tells her, holding his hands out for inspection, and she nods.

"It's late for you, too, so I just wanted to be sure."

Charles stands and holds his hand out to her, helping her up. "I wouldn't have volunteered if I thought I'd drop them," he chides gently. "Now away with you."

He watches as she climbs the stairs and sees her rake her fingers through her hair as he had done earlier. He knows she's checking it for tangles before taking a hairbrush to it, and he knows she'll do that just after she washes her face with the small pink flannel she keeps by the sink and brushes her teeth.

_This is what marriage is, _he thinks_. This is what I wanted – all of this. _It isn't just the sexual way of being 'as close as two people can be,' or whatever it was that he'd said to Mrs. Patmore in those uncomfortable moments; no, it's the small things, too, tiny pieces of life that each of them shares with the other. It's Elsie with her hair down, walking in stocking-clad feet about the house. It's him donning spectacles to read before bed or, sometimes, in the afternoon, and the small smile of approval that his wife gives him upon seeing them. She finds them attractive, for some reason he still cannot fathom. It is planning small surprises like the Christmas music, and being just as glad to have those surprises turned upside down when an opportunity to hold her in his arms and dance around the living room presents itself so abruptly.

Elsie's voice carries down the stairs to his ears as he passes into the kitchen, and he catches the familiar tune of one of the holiday songs they were listening to not long before. It fills him with contentment as he turns the handle on the faucet and waits for the water to heat up.

The tremor is fully under control tonight, and Charles is grateful. Half a lifetime of polishing silver to perfection means he's more than capable of helping out now and again with a few dishes, but the wine glasses and decanter were a wedding gift from the staff and are too dear to both Carsons for Charles to let his modesty put the crystal at risk. He washes and rinses each piece with care and gently sets them in the rack to dry.

Returning to the parlor, he unplugs the lights, plunging the room into relative darkness. The scent of the tree is strong and he inhales the woodsy fragrance, reminiscent of so many things from Christmases past. When everything is put to rights, he climbs the short staircase to the bedroom, only to find a small surprise when he reaches the landing.

"Elsie?"

She is brushing her teeth, so her reply is something of a muffled "Hm?"

He appears in the doorway, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. "It would appear that some sort of ... elf ... has been causing some decorating mischief up here." There's a smile playing about his lips, but he refuses to let it blossom any further as he makes a weak attempt at confusion and furrows his brow.

She quirks her own eyebrow at his reflection and gives him half a shrug before returning to her nighttime routine, and he heads across the hall without a word. But it isn't long before she emerges and stands in their bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Don't you need to wash up?" she suggests with an innocent smile. A glance above her head confirms that yes, indeed, the mistletoe is still there – as it is in every doorway on the second floor of their home, a little Christmas detail that visitors don't need to see (_particularly daughters of Earls who already intrude enough on people's personal lives,_ she can't help but think) but one with which she and Charlie might have a little bit of fun.

"I do." He crosses the room slowly, amusement curling his lips into a somewhat devilish smile now as he approaches his wife. "Erm, there's something stuck on the doorway, Mrs. Carson."

She looks up. "Oh, so there is. Mistletoe, isn't it?"

"It appears so," Charles agrees, playing along. "I wonder where it came from?"

"Well, as you so astutely pointed out, it had to have been elves. _I_ was busy readying myself for bed, as you can see." She points to her face and gives him a toothy smile: _'All clean,'_ it says. "Now, Charlie, I think you're supposed to come here and give me a kiss."

He happily obliges, pulling her to him slowly and caressing the small of her back with his gentle, warm hands. He kisses her softly, his lips moving against hers and parting them slightly, and his tongue teases hers _very _lightly as his hands slide up her sides, the tips of his thumbs brushing the swell of her breasts before landing on her waist and squeezing it gently. He eventually pulls back and places one more kiss to her forehead, followed by a peck to the tip of her nose. As he moves past her and into the bathroom, he can tell she's been left rather breathless.

"That wasn't fair," he hears her say quietly, and he chuckles.

"Tell that to your elves."

"Hmph."

As she hears him close the bathroom door, Elsie sits and brushes her hair out, counting an even one hundred strokes as her Mam had taught her to do when she was a lass. It always comforts her, and while Charles sometimes brushes it for her – a small intimacy of marriage that Elsie knows he enjoys immensely - that often leads to other things, and she simply doesn't have the energy for any of that tonight.

She turns the bed down and climbs in, exhausted. She wishes she hadn't fallen asleep earlier, not with the new hat for Johnny not yet finished and Charlie's Christmas stocking still in need of mending, but the wine, the dancing, and the warmth of her husband's embrace had lulled her into an overly peaceful, drowsy state.

Elsie rolls over to face Charles's side of the bed when he returns; after he turns off the light, she scoots close to him.

"That was a lovely surprise, Charlie - the dinner, the music, the dancing. Thank you again for putting it all together."

Charles rolls over to face her and give her one more gentle kiss goodnight as she settles herself more comfortably in his arms.

"It was my pleasure."

**_TBC_**

* * *

**Thanks so much for the sweet reviews you've been sending my way. I appreciate hearing your thoughts on each chapter and your ideas and reflections on each character. xx**


	6. Fire

_**20th of December**_

_**Housekeeper's sitting room**_

A wisp of smoke escapes the stove when Elsie tosses a small long onto the fire, her mind far away on the conversation she's just had with Mr. Bates and looking forward to asking Charles about it when she returns home. The smoke adds to the wintry, holiday ambiance of her parlor, where she's managed to hang a bit of the leftover greenery from what wasn't needed in the great hall upstairs. There's a good-sized swag hanging over her table, a few springs here and there, and tiny ribboned sprays atop the mantle and in a small vase on her desk.

Elsie's gaze rests on the vase for a moment; it had been her Mam's prized possession, a wedding gift that she and Elsie's Da had received so many years ago. Its small size had enabled Elsie to bring it back to the Abbey after the funeral and she'd kept it in the small chest in her attic room. Thanks to Charlie, it now sits on her desk instead of tucked away in a closet somewhere at their home. She's unusually emotional about that now, about the presence of mind he had in not allowing it to be moved to the cottage only to continue sitting in a box on a shelf. He told her it would remind her of good times, be a symbol of a solid and healthy marriage built upon years of trust, and really - what's not to love about that?

Elsie returns to her desk and her mind plays over the last hours of yesterday evening, the warmth of being in her man's arms as he held her close, the way their waltzing around the room had slowed to something resembling more of a sway as she rested her head on his chest and let the strong beat of his heart – regular, steady, comforting – bring her a sense of peaceful holiday cheer amidst the hectic nature that was currently making up her days.

In the beginning, when they were truly 'newly-wed' and they were both working long days side by side, his gentle surprises came in the form of a freshly-clipped rose on her chair, a hot cup of tea on her desk into which he'd snuck a drop or two of brandy when she'd had that nasty summer cold, or a stolen three-minute window squirreled away in his pantry where she'd sat by his fireplace as his strong hands massaged tension from her shoulders. Nowadays he has more time but occasionally less ability, and he's had to be a bit more creative given the hours they spend apart while she's working. Nevertheless, he still manages to surprise her – and himself, if she knows the man at all – showing tiny glimpses to her of the kind and boyish nature that she knows still lives buried deep inside the curmudgeonly exterior. She certainly hadn't counted on Charles enjoying his retirement, and she knows that the small things he does for her sometimes come at a great cost to him and that there are times when the best laid plans he has are so often affected by the trembling in his hands. But last night ... well. Last night had been perfect.

The log in the fireplace crackles, and she's brought out of her daydreaming by a small knock at the door.

"Yes?" Elsie recognizes the knock; she'd know it anywhere, even if she has only ever heard it on her sitting room door.

In walks Sybbie Branson, her coat unbuttoned and her cheeks red from the wind outside.

"Mrs. Hughes!" The small girl tumbles into Elsie's outstretched arms. "I've missed you so much! I know you must be busy, but Papa said I might come down and say a quick 'hello'."

"You may _always _do that," Elsie reminds her. "And I just saw you last week!"

Sybbie rolls her eyes and pulls off her hat, which she stuffs between her leg and the side of the chair. "That was _ages _ago."

Elsie stifles a laugh at the girl's cheek. "Is your Papa waiting for you upstairs, then?"

"No. He's sitting with Andrew out there," Sybbie replies, pointing in the general direction of the servants' hall. "They're having grown-up talk. Something about the farm."

"Ahh, yes. I believe Mr. Mason and Andrew were discussing purchasing a vehicle for the farm, to help with some of the work they need done." She taps Sybbie playfully on the nose. "And your Papa is likely to steer them in the right direction."

Elsie gets up and leads the young girl to the small chairs by the fire. "Here; let's sit and you can catch me up on all your news."

Sybbie climbs up on the chair and her legs begin to instantly swing to and fro underneath it. "Mrs. Hughes," she says abruptly. "Will we see you on Christmas Eve? At our party? Papa says the family have a big party upstairs and we shall all sing carols around the tree and open our gifts!"

"I will certainly be there," Elsie assures the young lass, "and Mr. Carson will be joining me, too."

"Oh!" Sybbie shouts gleefully and claps her hands. "That will be wonderful! I love Mr. Carson. He tells the best stories when he visits the nursery."

Elsie knows about her husband's visits to see the children and she knows that they all adore him.

"So, Miss Sybbie, what have you asked Father Christmas for this year?"

Sybbie scrunches up her brow and frowns. "I could tell you, but it doesn't matter."

Elsie is puzzled. "Doesn't it? Whyever not?"

Sybbie hops off the chair and approaches Elsie's left side, beckoning the woman to bend down closer so that Sybbie might tell her a secret.

"I don't think he's real," Sybbie whispers. "Father Christmas. But I can't tell George and Marigold, or Caroline or Johnny, either."

Elsie affects a look of shock. "Why would you ever think that he's not real, dear?" she gasps.

"Because that's what Bobby said at school yesterday." She climbs back onto her own chair.

The fire crackles as the housekeeper and the girl sit facing one another, contemplating the situation before them. Elsie is having quite a time of trying to stuff a very different kind of fire back down into her belly where it belongs.

_How dare any child try to ruin the magic of Christmas for another? _

"Would this be Bobby Brigg?" she asks aloud. "The one whose mother bakes all those beautiful cakes?"

"Mm-hm."

"And what, precisely, does Bobby Brigg know about Father Christmas that he'd make such wild accusations?"

Sybbie takes a deep breath and tries to put what she remembers into sensible, grown-up sounding words.

"Bobby said that last week, he heard his Mam and Pa talking about how there weren't as many orders for cakes this Christmas, and how it meant there wouldn't be …" She pauses, then manages to remember his exact words after a few seconds' thought. "… that there wouldn't be as many surprises beneath the tree this year for Bobby and Elaine. Bobby said that must mean that his Pa buys their presents and they only _pretend_ they're from Father Christmas, and I think he's right because I always get so very many things, and so do George and Marigold, and …" She isn't sure how to finish, but Elsie knows what she means.

"You are very fortunate children," she says carefully, "but I'm sure Father Christmas loves all children equally. Perhaps Bobby and Elaine receive fewer things because their home is smaller?"

"Perhaps." Sybbie thinks on this for a moment. "I could tell him that."

"Well, it may be best not to," Elsie says suggestively, and she watches the girl and sees how quickly Sybbie thinks it through.

"I wouldn't want to sound boastful," Sybbie tells her, the words coming out slowly. "Mama wouldn't like that at all."

Elsie is so taken aback by the mention of Lady Sybil that her heart leaps into her throat. "No," she whispers, "perhaps she wouldn't. Your Mama was so very kind and thoughtful, and she treated everyone she met equally, without regard to their type of clothing, or job, or the kind of home they lived in."

"Papa says people should all try to be more like Mama." She climbs up onto Elsie's lap, and Elsie wraps her arms around the girl in a secure hug, ignoring how Sybbie's hair tickles as it brushes against Elsie's chin.

"He's right about that," Elsie says quietly. "And you, Miss Sybbie, remind us all so much of her."

They sit quietly for a minute, but soon Elsie hears what she assumes are Tom Branson's footsteps coming down the corridor.

"I asked for a paint set," Sybbie whispers. "And that was before Bobby said what he said, so I'm sure I won't be getting it now."

Elsie looks up as Tom appears in her doorway.

"You never know," she whispers back, helping Sybbie to hop down and join her father.

"And just what are you two plotting?" he asks. "Or do I not want to know?"

Elsie stands and picks up Sybbie's hat, which she hands to the sweet girl. "Good afternoon, Mr. Branson. We were firming up plans to see one another during the family's Christmas Eve party. And we were discussing how very much your daughter takes after both her parents."

"But especially Mama," Sybbie blurts out, and Tom's laugh is easy as he receives a hug from his girl.

"Isn't that the truth," he chuckles, and his gaze meet's Elsie's over his daughter's head.

_Thank you,_ he mouths, and Elsie nods in reply.

"You two had better hurry off," she says. "There is snow in the air, and I wouldn't be surprised if it comes before morning."

"How do you know that?" Sybbie asks, wondrous.

"Mrs. Hughes grew up on a big farm in Scotland," Tom explains.

Sybbie's brow furrows. "What's that got to do with snow?"

"Well, Miss Sybbie, when the snow was on its way, the air had a special feeling and a special smell. We grew up learning what that felt like because it told us it was time to put the animals in the barn, to keep them warm and safe and dry."

"Papa says I have to wear my hat and coat to keep _me _warm and dry," Sybbie says. "I'm too warm now, though. May we go, Papa?"

Tom reaches down and takes her hand. "We may. What do you say to Mrs. Hughes?"

Sybbie turns to her. "Thank you for letting me visit and sit on your lap," Sybbie says in a heartfelt way. "And for letting me tell you my … "

"Christmas wish?" Elsie prompts with a wink.

"Your Christmas wish!" Tom exclaims. "You didn't even tell _me _your Christmas wish!"

"Mrs. Hughes keeps all the secrets, Papa," Sybbie explains patiently. "Everyone knows that."

Tom chuckles, and Elsie's sure she sees a faint blush appear on his cheeks. "Well, I can't argue with that. Now, how about we try to smell the snow in the air as we head down to the barn and visit the horses?"

Sybbie's cheer echoes down the corridor, and Elsie leans against the door jamb and watches them leave – via the servants' door, she notes, and not the staircase to the hall.

_Some things never change_, she muses, turning back to her work.

The fire dies down in the hearth, but Elsie pays it no mind. She's heading back home to Charlie in just over an hour's time and must be sure to tell him that they're to make time for Miss Sybbie on Christmas Eve, just like they always did for her mother when she was her daughter's age.

And, with any luck, they can manage to find a small child's paint set in the next four days.

**_TBC_**

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for the sweet reviews, particularly the guest reviewers, whoever you are! (John McD, please PM me via my author page on the FF website as I'd love to answer your questions but I cannot do that with a guest review.)**

**Also, because I can do whatever I want here, I'm pimping Hogwarts Duo's FANTASTIC cheerfulchelsiechristmas story called "A Very Chelsie Christmas." If Sybbie and Chelsie together is your jam like it is mine, she's got an entire story over there starring those three and it's freaking ADORABLE. Check it out! X**


	7. Garland

_**20th of December**_

_**Downton Village**_

Charles walked Elsie to work that morning, if only to reassure himself that she wouldn't return directly home for some forgotten thing or other. It may have been an irrational fear - she never forgets anything when she heads out for the day - but the walk did him good as well. They didn't talk about anything in particular as each was still a bit sleepy and needed the brisk morning air to clear the cobwebs, but it was nice all the same to have a bit more time shared.

Once he dropped her off, he meandered back to the cottage in order to make a shopping list for the walk he'd be taking into town later in the morning. Mr Mason had unknowingly given Charles a second idea the other day when they'd shared lunch and a pint and he'd mentioned how Daisy wanted to decorate the farmhouse for the holidays.

Charles had listened and been reminded of last Christmas with a pang; it his and Elsie's first Christmas together as a married couple, but it had been a year when they'd been so busy at Downton day in and day out, preparing for both Christmas and a wedding. Anna having been on restricted duty had only added to the amount of work Elsie had been required to take on, and Charles remembered how their cottage had been relatively neglected in terms of decorating, save the tree by the window and the stockings hung by the fire.

This year will be different, if Charles has anything to do with it. With his list completed, he leaves the cottage behind and heads to town and into the general store, where he purchases several red and green plaid bows, around which the shopkeeper winds some wires for hanging. Then it's off one of the farms just outside of the village, where there are garlands and wreaths on display near pine cones, strings of various dried fruits, and even a large sleigh for the children to play in while their parents make purchases.

It's an awkward walk home with his arms full of pine, but Charles doesn't mind all that much. His biggest bother is the pitch that's coming off one one of his gloves and he curses his unpreparedness for it, wishing he'd brought his older pair instead. But no matter; it's a small price he'll pay for the reaction he'll get when Elsie returns home in the evening. He never used to see much point to impractical surprises, for things done 'just because,' but he assumes now that those negative opinions may have been due to the fact that he didn't have a wife then. Just the way Elsie's face lights up each and every time he surprises her is reason enough for Charles to go out of his way to plan unexpected experiences for her.

_That, _he thinks honestly, _and it gives you something to do._

It takes him two hours to hang everything he's purchased. He begins by hanging a long bough of the garland over the mantle and another, shorter length of it over the kitchen counter. Then he spends quite a bit of time walking back and forth between the two with one of the bows, holding it up in the air and trying to envision where they'll go, how far apart to space them, and myriad other details that he knows are much more suited to a housekeeper's keen eye and not that of a butler. Nonetheless, he makes his decision and painstakingly wraps each bow around the points where the greenery has been affixed to the mantle and wall, and he then goes back over it all again and forms deep pockets within the garland into which he places pine cones on pins and, occasionally, sprigs of the red winter berries he'd collected last week from the bog and hidden away in the gardening shed, knowing Elsie would never go in there and find them.

The final effect is exactly what he'd hoped for, and after scrubbing the sticky sap off of his hands, he puts the kettle on. Dinner will probably be sandwiches that Elsie's bringing home from the Abbey, but if that falls through he knows they can cobble something together from what's in the icebox.

He makes up the pot of tea, glances out the window, and wishes it were much closer to the time when she'd be arriving home. With a small sigh, he settles into his chair by the fire and cracks open the book that he'd borrowed from Elsie.

* * *

By the time she finally arrives, Charlie is dozing in his chair. He startles awake when she pushes open the door and closes the book abruptly, setting it on the table.

"There you are," he says, standing suddenly and remembering when he takes a breath and smells them that he's put up all the greenery.

"Charlie?" she says slowly, her face full of that astonishment and happiness that make him grateful for all the effort he's put in. "How …?" But she just shakes her head, unable to form the question aloud.

He approaches her, takes her hands in his, and lifts them to his lips as she's attempting to speak. He kisses the back of her knuckles, each one in turn, as her eyes roam both his face and the scene around them. When he's finished, she reaches up and cups his face in her hands, kissing him softly on the mouth.

"It wasn't terribly difficult," he says, "given that I've so few responsibilities this week. No meetings in town, no opinion needed by Mr. Barrow …"

"You've been bored," she summarizes, and he closes his eyes briefly and sighs.

"A bit. But not today." He looks her up and down. "Goodness, you're still in your coat."

She shrugs it off and hangs it, and when she turns around her hand is in Charlie's before she knows it and she's being tugged toward the kitchen.

"I've got a basket for our din-," she tells him, and then she sees it: the second bit of garland, threaded with the pine cones and some berries. "Ohh, Charlie – that's really lovely!"

"It's not too much?" He looks at her sheepishly, having second-guessed every bough, pine cone, bow, and berry from the second she walked in the door and woke him from his nap.

"Not at all."

"I waited because with the fireplace and stove going and the air being so dry, I wouldn't want them to begin to turn brown and ruin the effect."

"Good thinking."

She retrieves the basket from the table by the door and they unpack it together. Mrs. Patmore had portioned out some of the cottage pie she'd made for the servants' dinner and sent it home with Elsie, along with a loaf of fresh bread and a bottle of cider.

"This was a thoughtful addition," Charles says, pulling the bottle out and setting it aside. "And that pie seems warm still."

"Just out of the oven not ten minutes before I headed out," Elsie confirms. "It's why I was later than expected."

They enjoy an easy dinner, the smell of pine and the smoke from the fireplace adding to the warmth Elsie has been carrying with her all day long. Before long, their conversation turns to the family's Christmas Eve celebration, and Elsie relays her conversation with Sybbie Branson.

"So she still believes?"

"Well, I hope so," Elsie says. "It's such a magical time and I'd hate to think it's been spoiled for her, but then again that's how most children do end up finding out."

"It's a shame that the Brigg family is having a rough go of it this year," he replies sadly. "That's where that wonderful cake came from. She bakes amazing things."

"As good as Beryl Patmore's?" Elsie's teasing him.

He hums absentmindedly in reply, his gaze a bit far away.

"Charlie," she says slowly, "I know that look. What are you plotting?"

He swallows a bite and washes it down with some cider as a few pieces fall into place in his mind.

"Well, two things, actually. The first involves Miss Sybbie. You see, the farm I got this greenery at had a sleigh for the children to play on."

"And?"

He looks at her and raises his eyebrows. "And the proprietor, or the man I presume to be the proprietor, bears a remarkable resemblance to St. Nick."

"And you think Mr. Branson should bring her there."

"It couldn't hurt. I'm sure he can find a reason. Perhaps he can tell her he's got something to pick up for the automobile shop? Or a gift for someone?"

Elsie thinks about that. "What if we purchase a small wreath for the Bateses door, mention our plan to Mr. Branson, and he can pretend he's volunteered to pick it up for us? Or at least he can tell Miss Sybbie that? She'd be none the wiser. I'm sure he'll work it out."

Charles sets his silverware on his empty plate. "Will you ask him tomorrow? I can go back and order the wreath if he agrees, and then we'd have it well before Christmas Eve."

"There's only one thing," Elsie says. "One normally purchases them and then carries them home. What if she wonders why we didn't do just that? She's quite precocious, Charles. She'll ask if the thought occurs to her."

"You can tell him I wasn't able to carry it with everything else I'd gotten," he answers. "Which _would_ have been true had I bought a wreath today."

Elsie's eyes light up. "You're brilliant, you know."

"Thank you." He smiles sweetly at her. "Now, young Bobby. While we don't know his family very well, I wonder if the Abbey might be able to send a bit of last-minute Christmas business their way? I realize that's your purview and not mine, but is there a way something could be sorted that wouldn't upset Mrs. Patmore or the menus for the upcoming week?"

Elsie tilts her head, thinking, and sits back in her chair. She feels her husband's eyes on her, but he's patient.

"We normally get our general supplies from Bakewell's," she tells him. "Although since the gigantic order we placed for the royal visit, things have gotten back to normal."

"And Mrs. Patmore is Mr. Bakewell's favorite person on earth after that," Charles adds, beginning to see where she's heading. "So he might not begrudge a bit less sugar or flour in the next order?"

"You catch on quickly, love. Yes, that's what I'm thinking. That, added to the fact that Mrs. Patmore has mentioned taking a few days off in the new year in order to attend to some repairs at her bed and breakfast, makes me wonder if we can't place an order _now _for some future items to come directly from Mrs. Brigg's shop. We can pay her up front so that they have a bit extra for the holiday, and then we'll simply have a credit to utilize as needed."

Charles reaches over and takes her hand in his. "You're the brilliant one now, Elsie. Do you think her Ladyship would mind?"

"Technically I don't even have to mention it, but I will. And no, she won't mind at all, particularly if she understands the reason behind the plan."

She tells Charlie about Sybbie's request of a paint set, and he smiles.

"I'll pick it up tomorrow and let you smuggle it to the house and get it to Mr. Branson," he says.

"Perfect."

_**TBC**_

**I apologize - I know that's the worst ending ever, but we'll pick up right from this spot tomorrow. Thank you again for all of your lovely support, friends. Xxx**

**CSotA**


	8. Horse

The sun has long set, and Elsie and Charles are both keen to get the dishes washed and dried in order to sit and enjoy one another's company.

"Oh! I almost forgot. I was asked to pass along a request to you." Elsie is clearing the last of the dishes from the table. She brings them in to her husband, who deposits them carefully into the bin of hot water he's gotten ready.

"Were you?" He turns to watch her as she bustles back to table. "From whom?"

"From Mr. Bates."

Charles is surprised. He watches Elsie separate the knife they'd used to cut into the pie and place it to the side before dropping the rest of the flatware into the soapy water. "What could he want of me?"

"A favor," she says, turning to him. Her face carries a warm, nostalgic smile. "For Johnny - a Christmas surprise that Mr. Bates needs some assistance with. And something he's trying to keep from Anna, although I don't have any idea why."

Charles's own face brightens, and there's a sparkle of joy in his eyes. "Well?"

Elsie's heart swells at the sight of him, of the difference in his countenance (which had already been rather contented) that can only be brought about at the mention of doing something for one of the children. She loves this about her husband; in fact, it may be one of her favorite things. He cares deeply for her, without question, and that's its own lovely thing which she holds dear. But he also has feelings of friendship and care that run deep for several in the family and also downstairs, and he hides those sentiments fairly well most of the time ... except when it comes to the children. His care for the children is always displayed openly for all to see - but most of all, for _them_.

"Evidently there's a hobby horse in a shop in the village." She bumps her husband over to the drying rack and plunges her hands into the warm water, seeking out forks and spoons before they tarnish. "Mr. Bates wishes to procure it, but he needs a space where he can paint it a new color and then hide it away. He wishes for you to assist him in this."

"Because I'm no longer busy during the day," Charles adds, and she nods in agreement.

"I imagine so, yes, although I think he simply wishes to see you and spend time with you as well. Anyhow, it's evidently in excellent condition, albeit not the color he'd prefer. Although with so few days left until Christmas ..." She shrugs as she passes a handful of items to Charlie for drying.

"It'd need to be tomorrow, yes." He dries each piece of flatware fastidiously, eyeing Elsie as she rubs the cloth over something stuck on the knife. "Be careful," he advises quietly.

"I am."

Charles takes the knife from her and dries it, then adds it to the collection beside the drying rack as she starts on the plates. "I could go and sort the wreath and then come home and make some room in the work shed. When does he plan to come by to touch it up?"

"Well, he didn't say. I think he was waiting to hear your response."

"Did he think I'd not be willing to help?"

She's careful with her words, knowing he is still skating that fine line between enjoying the new opportunities retirement has afforded him and feeling old and unneeded. "I think it's five days from Christmas morning and he thought you might not be able to. He doesn't like to be presumptuous, and he also isn't familiar with asking for help. This _is_ Mr. Bates we're discussing."

"I presume my main involvement will be in getting it to their house for Christmas Eve." He smiles. "A surprise as much for Anna as for Johnny."

"Something like that." She hands him the first of the glasses. "Fancy a brandy after we're done here? I thought the hot water would help, but I'm still a bit chilled from the walk home."

"Now that sounds like a plan." He hangs the drying towel on the hook. "Why don't you go up and get out of that corset and I'll get it ready."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're just trying to get me undressed." She gives him a suggestive flick of her eyebrows, and he leans in close to kiss the shell of her ear, something which always sends a shiver through her regardless of how cold or warm she is.

"One never knows where the brandy will lead, Elsie."

He watches as she disappears up to their bedroom to change, and the familiar happiness fills him. Retrieving the snifters, he places them carefully on the table and gives each a healthy pour. Not too much, else it'll remain cold in the glass, but enough to take the chill out of her for sure.

When she comes back to the parlor, he's happy to see her in the robe and gown he'd purchased for her last Christmas. They suit her, and while they're warm enough he also finds her quite fetching in them. He holds the glass out to her, and she lifts it from his palm and clinks her glass to his before drinking.

"Ohh, this is good, Charlie."

She joins him on the settee instead of taking up the chair where she normally sits with her knitting. She sips her drink again and it reminds him that he has one of his own, as well as a plan to finish ironing out.

"When you see Mr. Bates in the morning, have him come by the cottage. I'll be sure to be here in the afternoon." He thinks for a moment. "His Lordship will be out on the estate with Lady Mary at their weekly meeting with the farmers, so Mr. Bates's duties should be fairly light. Unless that's changed?"

"You know it hasn't," she chides, and she scoots closer.

"Good. Or I can meet him in the village as well, if that's better. Just telephone and let me know."

"Look at you, Charlie. Encouraging the staff to use the house telephone for personal reasons?" She clucks her tongue. "My, my, how things do change."

"This is important." He takes a hefty swallow of the brandy and adds, "It's for the children."

"Finish that brandy, Charles, and come up to bed."

_**TBC**_

**My hefty thanks to everyone who's still checking in on this fic and letting me know your thoughts - I appreciate each and every one of your messages. I promise we'll see Mr. Bates and Charles picking up the horse and dealing with all that in a future chapter ... but not the **_**next**_** chapter, which is all adult, um, stuff. (Insert uptick in rating for **_**icicle**_**...)**

**xx**

**CSotA**


	9. Icicles

_**20th of December ... late**_

_**Love Nest**_

_***M-ish***_

They undress with slow movements, with Charles slipping the robe off his wife's shoulders and her returning the favor as her fingers maneuver deftly down the buttons of his shirt. She looks him over, her eyes still full of the wonder she had when they were first wed. It amazes him every time he sees that look on her face, and he reaches forward and lays a hand on one of her shoulders as he leans down and brushes his lips very lightly over the other. He feels her hands snake around his body and slip under his vest, rubbing up his back and down again, ruching the fabric up uncomfortably.

No matter; he just removes it.

"I love it when you look at me that way," he says. In his wonder, his voice is barely over a whisper. "I still don't understand it, but I love it."

"In what way?" She steps out of the robe, her hand holding onto his arm for balance as the sash is still partially tied, and he picks it up and lays it over the chair before turning back to her and reaching for the fabric of her nightgown, which he bunches up in his hands as it slowly climbs her legs.

"You know."

He draws her close, her nightie gathered in his grasp as she returns her own hands to his bare torso, rubbing them up and down over his chest - and then trailing her lips where her fingers have been.

"You're so warm," she murmurs, and he slips the gown over her head and tosses it on the floor.

He's still wearing his belt and trousers, but after a few more moments of being held, kissed, and caressed by him, Elsie backs away and turns down the bed, enabling him to divest himself of the rest of his clothing quickly and climb underneath the covers. He hovers over her, and she feels her heartbeat quicken.

"I love you, Charlie." She so rarely says the words, but she often regrets her reluctance; after all, most of their days are filled with nothing but reminders that time is racing by. It took her half a lifetime to _get_ to her happiest days and she realizes that part of making the very, very best of them has been letting go of preconceptions and inhibitions. She's not entirely there yet, but these words come more easily to her now.

"I love you, too." His voice rumbles in the quiet room, and he leans into her hand when she reaches up to cup his cheek. "So much that it frightens me sometimes."

Her fingertips brush his brow and flutter over his hair.

"Why?" She turns her head to the side when he shifts and manages to kiss the inside of his elbow, eliciting a soft growl from him when her tongue briefly flicks out over the delicate skin there.

"It just does."

She knows better to press him. They kiss tenderly before he lies down on one side and encourages her to put her back to his chest; she does so, but she also wiggles her bottom against him - as a question or suggestion, he's not quite sure.

"Now, now, Mrs. Carson," he whispers into her ear, nipping at the lobe and then soothing it with his tongue and causing her to moan softly. "Are you trying to rush me?"

She gasps as his hand trails up and down her leg, knowing for certain just what he has in mind. They've only made love this way a few times, and she freely admits that the first time he suggested it had been a shock, but she trusts her husband and the care he takes with her and has been shown many times over that there is more to marriage and sexual intimacy than she'd ever expected, that intimacy is trust and love and tenderness as well as burning, flaming passion. _Illicit_ is the word that often comes to her mind when she thinks of this particular ... position, she supposes, if she's forced to use words to think about these things. It definitely is not what she'd have ever called _proper, _and certainly nothing she'd have expected from her traditional butler_. _

Charles caresses her gently, his hand slipping over her hip and between her thighs, pulling her from her wayward thoughts.

"So soft," he mutters, and he can feel beneath his fingertips how his touch ignites her, how it leads her to something they still struggle to find words to describe.

_That's not true, _he thinks. There _are _words, but neither of them are comfortable speaking most of them aloud, even in the sanctuary of their bedroom.

When he props himself up on his elbow and leans down to nuzzle her neck, she shifts and leans forward, her legs parting and making room for his; he moves closer, lifts her a bit, and she feels him brushing up against her, needy but patient, as his hand travels up her side and cups her breast.

"Is this alright? I mean, if we ..." The rest of the question lies in his throat, but she's always understood what he doesn't say.

_He's sweet to ask,_ Elsie thinks; many husbands don't feel the need or think it important, but she knows he cares as much for her comfort, pleasure, and value as he does his own ... and, quite possibly, _more _than his own.

"Oh yes, Charlie," she murmurs, reaching back for him and brushing her fingertips over the skin on his bottom, digging her fingernails in a bit as she tries to pull him closer.

It's all the reassurance he needs. He lifts her up a bit more and guides himself. As he slips into her, his movements slow and careful and he holds her, altering his position slightly every so often to increase the pleasure she feels.

Eventually she steadies herself a bit and he can relinquish his hold on her hip, which frees his hand up to slide around to the front of her once more.

He's pressing her into the mattress, his weight noticeably heavy over and on top of her, and she loves it, loves feeling the power of his physical size and his gentleness all wrapped up into one. Elsie knows that Charles has loved her for a very long time, but in this room, in this bed, he _adores _her in such a worshipful, incredible way.

She can tell he's holding back and while a small part of her feels guilty, a much larger part of her is happy that he waits for her and manipulates her body to react to every little change in his touch. When it finally hits her full force, she's grateful that her voice is muffled by the pillow; he's quick to follow, releasing a soft roar into the quiet of the bedroom while still being so cautious not to hurt her; as it is, it's almost too much, too sensitive ... _almost._

"Ohh, Elsie," he moans, careful not to collapse on her, and she reaches blindly back and holds him to her. He moves their bodies carefully and they lie together in the silence of the room, catching their breath as he wraps his limbs fully around her. Elsie finds his hand and laces her fingers through his and they stay like that until, inevitably, he can no longer manage to remain inside of her.

When he rolls away, the coolness of the air gives her a shiver. She sits up slowly, a bit lightheaded, and she claps his hand briefly and squeezes it before leaving him momentarily in order to wash up a bit and get into her nightgown again. She smiles mischievously once she returns and climbs back into the bed, and she slowly allows her foot to creep over to his leg.

"Oh! Your feet are like icicles, Elsie! How does that happen so quickly?"

"I did walk barefoot to the bathroom and back," she says.

"I know, but the cottage isn't that cold," he grumbles, sliding out of the bed himself. "The floor feels fine to me."

She watches as he walks away, admiring his physique and shaking her head. When they were first married, neither of them would have dreamed of walking around completely nude, back and forth to the loo or even around the bedroom. But nowadays, it doesn't seem odd at all.

He returns quickly and she holds the covers up for him after he steps into a pair of pajama pants, foregoing the shirt - a new preference of his, because sometimes he likes to feel her cheek pressed to his chest, her hair falling over his shoulder, and tonight is one of those nights.

"Icicles," he whispers.

"Hardly," she returns, and a yawn escapes her. "Now let me sleep, Charlie."

He kisses her temple. "You should sleep well tonight, Els."

"Indeed."

_**TBC**_

**Thank you for all the love you've shown for this story! This one is for nanokouw who sent me a much more entertaining idea for _icicles _than the one I was previously considering. xxx**


	10. Jolly

**_21st of December_**

Charles orders the wreath as planned, leaving specific instructions that Tom Branson, Estate Manager of Downton Abbey, along with his daughter Sybbie, will be by to pick it up that afternoon. When he's asked if there is a message to be included, he simply tells them to leave a note that it's a gift from Father Christmas. That, along with the proprietor's promise to be available to meet with young Miss Branson, is more than Charles could have asked for. He turns back to look at the man one last time, and he nods to himself.

_Yes, he is very much the jolly Saint Nick. Miss Sybbie will be delighted._

From the farm stand he makes his way to the village, where Mr. Bates is waiting to meet him. The wind picks up and Charles holds his hat down until the gust passes. He's very grateful for the sheepskin-lined leather gloves that Elsie had gifted him last Christmas. They're comfortably broken in now, warm and protective, and if he tries hard enough he can just about imagine the feel of her own gloved hand squeezed in the palm of his. He wishes she were with him today, and his thoughts move forward to next year, wondering if she will, in fact, be with him all the time by then. The subject of her retirement isn't one that he brings up much, knowing how multi-faceted a decision that is, but she has raised the subject twice just in the last month. Financially they would be comfortable, for they have the opportunity to either rent out Brouncker Road or sell it again, and Elsie would certainly receive a generous sum from the family given that she's not in need of the cottage they'd have customarily offered her on the estate.

_Yes, _Charles thinks. _We wouldn't be wealthy by any great means, but we'd certainly be comfortable enough._

Similar thoughts stay with him all the way to the village and he has to forcibly evict images of spending lazy mornings in bed with his wife from his mind when he spots John Bates standing across the square and approaches the man.

"Good day, Mr. Carson," John says cheerfully. He offers his hand, and Charles shakes it firmly.

"Hello, Mr. Bates. I'm sorry if I'm late," he says, knowing he isn't but still uncomfortable at being the last to arrive.

"Not at all. I had some other business to attend to that didn't take as long as expected."

"So," Charles says, looking around at the storefronts. "Where are we headed?"

"Actually, it's not in the center. It's a small shop that I happened to hear about just down the road that way," he says, pointing. "It's very ... unique, I think I'd call it."

Charles's heartbeat jumps. "Not Mrs. Adler's, surely."

"You know it?"

"I should," Charles replies. "I was there two days ago purchasing a gift for my wife."

"Did you see the horse?"

Charles thinks back to the area with all the toys. "No. No, I don't believe it was there then."

"That's curious. It appeared to me that it had been there for quite a while. Almost buried in a corner." He smiles. "Anna has always wanted a hobby horse for Johnny. She started talking about it before he was even born. It's something she had when she was small, and just the idea of it brings about fond memories for her."

"It seems quite serendipitous that you've found it, then." Charles doesn't say any more. He knows from the years he and Elsie spent side by side at Downton that Anna's childhood wasn't a pleasant or easy one. The idea of her having a spot of happiness in the midst of all of it is a lovely one.

They arrive shortly thereafter at the shop, Charles following John inside.

"Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Adler greets him warmly. "It is good to see you again."

"Likewise," he says with a nod. "I'm here as an extra set of hands today."

"Ahh, yes. The hobby horse for young Johnny Bates. I've put it aside over here ..." Her voice trails off as she heads down a small corridor, returning with the horse in question.

Charles notices a peculiar look on his companion's face, but he brushes it aside. The lighting in the store isn't bright and he wonders if he imagined it. Still, he knows John Bates to be a man of few expressions, and he's curious.

John pays for the horse and Charles takes an opportunity to examine the thing, turning it this way and that and realizing that it needs very little work, indeed. It appears that a pad of some sort had been affixed to the seat at one point, and he wonders if perhaps he and Elsie might be able to fashion a new one as a surprise of their own, but he won't bring it up just yet. It's possible that it's part of what is already planned anyhow.

"A very Happy Christmas to you and your families," Mrs. Adler says as they leave.

"And to you," John returns. He offers to carry the horse but Charles isn't having it.

"It's not heavy; I'm fine."

"Thank you." John isn't embarrassed by his limp or his cane, not anymore and not for a very long time, not since Mrs. Hughes had encouraged him to toss the brace away (and then, not quite as long ago, when Anna helped him see that his injury didn't matter at all when they were home and tucked in and away from the world).

They walk in silence for a short while, but when they crest the small hill of the side street and are back in the main square, Charles remembers John's strange reaction in the shop.

"You had a funny look about you back there, Mr. Bates. You seemed almost puzzled about something. Was it something Mrs. Adler said?"

John, a man who was so very rarely bothered by other people's words or actions, stiffens.

"I never told her," he says quietly, glancing at Charles. "Johnny. I never told her his name."

Charles feels the hair stand up on the back of his neck. "So ... how did she know?"

John shrugs. "I have no idea. None at all, Mr. Carson."

* * *

"That ought to do it."

John puts down the sanding block and steps back to examine the horse as Charles rummages in the cabinet for something.

"There we are." He's found a can of shiny black paint and deposits it on the table. "Elsie will have my head if we do this in here," he adds quietly, and his companion hums in agreement.

"The kitchen is definitely not the best place for woodworking," John says. "I can't say as I disagree, because the fumes from the paint will be strong."

Charles ponders their situation. "The shed is too cold in winter," he mutters, looking around, and then he has it. "There's a small second bedroom upstairs," he tells John. "There's a fireplace, so if I get a fire going in there, we can crack the window open and leave the door shut. It won't be so cold as to interfere with the paint's finish, but the worst of the smell _should _escape."

"I'm so sorry," John says suddenly. "This little project is turning your home upside down, and it's nearly Christmas. I didn't mean for this to happen; honestly, the shed being too cold hadn't even occurred to me."

"Don't you worry about that, Mr. Bates. It's a small project, and the horse is in such good condition anyhow that I'm sure only one coat will be necessary." He pauses, then adds, "Have you given thought to a seat?"

"You mean, besides the wooden one?" John's brow furrows. "Not really."

Charles pulls a small cutting board from the cabinet, setting it on the horse's seat. "This is about the right size," he says, "although not the wood I'd use."

John smirks. "Then Mrs. Carson would _really _have your head."

"No doubt about it. No, not this, but something similar, along with perhaps a spare piece of red fabric and some stuffing from an old cushion, a bit of glue ... I think we have those upstairs, although I'll need to ask to be sure I'm not making off with anything important. Yes, I think it would work." He looks to John. "May Elsie and I take care of that for you, if we have what we need? It wouldn't take long."

John smiles. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Carson. If you're willing, I'm sure it would be marvelous."

"Well," Charles says quietly, "we'd like to do something special for the lad. He's such a bright spot in our lives."

The valet doesn't quite know what to say. "Thank you," he manages, and Charles nods.

"That's it, then. Let's get this upstairs. I'll get the fire going and you can mix the paint and get that started."

"Perfect."

Charles realizes as he's halfway up the stairs that John had referred to Elsie by her proper name. He never does so at the house, so the change must have been intentional. It showed care and respect, and it makes Charles wonder whether Elsie might have been right; perhaps, at the end of the day, this entire project is just an excuse for two men to spend some time together - two men who might be able to develop something of a good friendship now that one of them is retired.

**_TBC_**

**I know - it was TOTALLY CHEATING to sneak "jolly" in as a throwaway for the farmer with the wreath. Sorry/not sorry! Had to get this scene out there and, chronologically, this is where it goes. :) Thanks for all of your reviews, folks - they keep me going! xx CSotA**


	11. Knitting

**I have five favorite chapters in this fic, and this is one of them. (Angel was one, and the other three are coming up, in case anyone is wondering.) I hope you enjoy it. xx**

**CSotA**

* * *

**_21st of December_**

As the horse is being painted back at the cottage, Elsie is holed away in her sitting room, suddenly painfully aware that Christmas is a very short _four days away._ There's a pile of staff gifts on the side table where she and Charlie used to sit and share a bit of sherry or a hot cuppa, each with a small paper tag but awaiting either wrapping, a bow, or both. But Elsie doesn't have time to finish those at the moment, and as she doesn't need to have them done until Christmas Eve morning, she's tossed a cloth over them and turned her attentions to the current state of affairs in her hands: Charlie's Christmas stocking.

When they'd initially discovered the small hole in the stocking, Elsie hadn't thought it any great problem. The stocking was old, to be sure, but it had been tightly knit and she found yarn at a shop in the village that was of the same color and weight as the original. But now that she's unraveled the edges a bit and tried to begin a repair, she realizes how very, very wrong she was.

It is, in a word, a disaster.

With a huff, she unravels the bit she was just working on and finds another place to start. She'd thought at first to put a patch in, but there's no good way to do it without it looking like ... well ... a patch. It's not centered over the toe or the heel, and she doesn't want it to look shabby. She's frustrated as all get out - and running out of time.

A soft knock on the door interrupts her, and while she'd normally be annoyed by it, she recognizes it and has a flicker of hope.

"Come in, Miss Baxter."

The maid has a quiet way about her that Elsie appreciates. Today, there's a smile on her face when she comes through the door.

"Do you know us all by our knock, Mrs. Hughes, or should I worry?"

Elsie laughs. "No, but yours is a welcome distraction. What can I do for you?"

Phyllis spies the stocking, which Elsie tries to tuck down between her thigh and the side of her chair.

"Her Ladyship wanted me to remind you about the gift she has tucked away in the attic," she says. "Andy can bring it down, but she's hoping you can arrange a time for that when Lord Grantham won't see it."

"I still don't know why she felt she had to hide a pair of gold cuff links in the attic," Elsie says. "Or why she'd like us to smuggle them into her bedroom instead of putting them under the tree."

"Well, I gather he's a bit of a snoop," Phyllis confides. "But Andy knows where they are upstairs, and she says she'll bring them down from her room on Christmas morning."

"They'll need wrapping," Elsie sighs.

"No," Phyllis counters, and she smiles shyly. "I did that already when you had me bring them up. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Not at all, and I thank you. And since you're here, I've a favor to ask you."

"It wouldn't have to do with what you've hidden between you and that chair, would it?"

"It would." Elsie withdraws the stocking and hands it to Phyllis, who takes it from the housekeeper's hands. "Please - sit."

Phyllis does, and she turns the stocking over in her hands and lays it gently in her lap. "Does this belong to Mr. Carson?"

"It does. It's very dear to him," Elsie replies, and something sweet and slightly painful creeps into her heart. "I thought I could fix it, but I think I've made it worse."

She watches as the maid lifts the stocking a bit closer to the light and gently turns it inside out.

"I tried that ..." Elsie mutters. "If you've any ideas, I'm all ears. I nearly brought it to you and begged you to take care of it yesterday, but I figured I'd sort it today."

Phyllis pulls at the edges of the hole, then looks up. "How much of the new yarn do you have?"

Elsie holds up the ball, and Phyllis smiles and nods.

"That'll do." She leans forward in her chair, and Elsie does the same. "See here? Now, please don't be afraid by what I'm about to say, but I think you should undo all of this ..." She points to a different row. " ... to this point. Then use the new yarn and completely redo these seven rows. You can blend it in here," she says, pointing again.

Elsie's eyes widen. "I'm not sure." She bites down on her lip, thinking. She looks at the stocking again and thinks _ahead_ trying to figure out how much time she'll need, wondering if she'd be better to quit while she's ahead. Her gaze turns back to Phyllis's face, only to find the other woman looking at her.

"It'll mean more to him if _you_ do it," Phyllis says, anticipating the question. "So much more. Is there a way I can free up some of your duties?"

"I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You certainly could, Mrs. Hughes. I'd be happy to help in any way I can." She smirks. "Unless you ask me to repair that stocking, in which case I might suddenly remember something very important that I need to get done. Besides, it won't take as long as you think."

"I see." Elsie tries to look cross but she really isn't. She knows Miss Baxter is right, that Charlie will appreciate it so much more if it comes from his wife. And she doesn't dare say it to the maid or to anyone else for that matter, but Charlie is very sentimental about the Christmas holiday and this year, more than most that she's known him, he's been a bit melancholy. She has a sense that he's searching for something, or trying to grab hold of something that he can't quite remember. If she's honest with herself, she's a smidge frightened by it.

"Are you comfortable with the stitch?"

"Yes," Elsie says rather confidently. "That part is all right. It was just making it look like the rest, and making it blend in unnoticeably."

In a rare display of emotion, Phyllis reaches over and grasps Elsie's hand and gives it a little squeeze.

"You'll not ruin it, Mrs. Hughes. It may not come out the way you've envisioned, although I doubt it'll be far off the mark. And it'll be done with love and care, just like everything else you do for him."

Elsie's eyes fill with tears, a very uncharacteristic demonstration of her own, but she meets Phyllis's gaze.

"You're right." She swallows. "Thank you for that. And if you truly don't mind, perhaps I could give you the new linen checklist? Would you have time to do the rotation? That would free me up to work on this before I finalize the menus and the last order coming in for the kitchen."

"I'd be happy to." Phyllis waits until Elsie retrieves the papers for her; when she leaves, she closes the door quietly.

Elsie picks the stocking up and turns it inside-out once again, counting the rows that she'll be undoing. Settling herself against the chair back, she begins.

She works diligently for the next hour, pulling one section out that she's unhappy with but otherwise continuing on slowly, carefully, and finishing with a happy sigh and a smile on her face. The softness of the newer yarn seems to match the feel of the old. The dark color reminds her a bit of home, of rolling fields and rainy nights.

The ticking of the mantle clock grabs her attention and she lets out a small gasp; it's much later than she thought, and while the pile of gifts by the sideboard can wait another day, the menus and kitchen inventory definitely cannot.

As she's finishing the last few items, she wonders how Charlie and Mr. Bates are getting on at the cottage. She's a bit fearful of what she'll walk in on, although Charles is rarely untidy and she knows Mr. Bates to be the same. But it has to have been too cold to work in the shed for any length of time, which makes her worry a small bit about the state of their dining room table - the only place large enough to hold any kind of hobby horse like the ones with which she's familiar.

She imagines them painting the toy in the dining room, but she shakes off the concern almost immediately.

"They wouldn't dare," she mutters aloud to herself.

_**TBC**_


	12. Lights

**A/N: Thanks to all of you for the lovely reviews. I'm trying to keep up with replies but fear I've missed a couple, so please accept my hearty hug and gratitude.**

**Spoiler ahead for the film, if that's even a thing anymore.**

**Welcome to what nanokouw calls one of my "themes" - the relationship between Carson and the Dowager. *smile***

**Xx**

**CSotA**

* * *

_**21st of December**_

It is nearly time to return to the cottage, yet Elsie keeps getting pulled here and there for goodness only knows what, and her husband is becoming a bit more than merely annoyed. He knows how it is, how it always has been, this harried week leading up to the the Christmas holiday and then, soon after, the New Year.

Since retiring, however, he has become quite a bit less patient about it.

He has a different life now, as he'd said to Elsie before, and they are certainly making a go of it. It's been so wonderful and different and special that he often thinks of it as a _new _life, and he'd rather like to get back to living it today. He had been asked quite politely by Mr. Barrow to come up and go over the final wine selections for Christmas Eve and for dinner on the holiday itself, along with the selections for the following week. Charles has to admit that, after some time serving as butler at Downton, Mr. Barrow finally seems to have gotten the knack of choosing.

_Well, _Charles amends, _almost._

Elsie strides into her sitting room and her husband stands, thinking they're about to leave. He should have known that isn't happening.

"How did the wine selection go?" she asks as she rushes right past him to sift through a pile of notes on her desk.

"His choices are improving," Charles replies diplomatically. He eyes a peculiar looking package that's poking out of her handbag, wishing she was currently picking up that handbag and heading out the door with him.

She turns to look at him. "Truly?"

"Well," he amends quietly, surreptitiously glancing out the doorway to ensure they're not being overheard, "they're less than abysmal."

Elsie smirks. "Progress, indeed." She turns back to her papers and locates the one she needs. "I need to go over a couple of things with her Ladyship for tomorrow, and then I think I'll be free."

"I'll kidnap you if you're not," he grumbles.

Elsie approaches him, running her hand up the lapel of his jacket before squeezing his shoulder. "I wonder whatever happened to the butler who'd fall asleep in his pantry rather than admitting defeat in the face of a long night?"

Her husband leans down and whispers in her ear. "He discovered that it's much lovelier falling asleep in a large, comfortable bed as he holds his wife in his arms."

Her cheeks warm, and she shakes her head slowly as a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. "You never cease to amaze me," she murmurs before turning from him. "Why not wait outside? Go and look at the lights, Charlie; you know you love that. Besides, it'll give me an excuse to rush out the door."

"I could do with a bit of fresh air," he admits. "All the extra baking and it's like an oven in the entire servants' corridor."

"And yet here we have my sitting room fire, to which someone has recently added wood."

"Can't have you catching cold," he mumbles, and he watches her head out the door and turn to give him a small wave before making her way to the servants' stairs one (hopefully) final time that evening.

Charles lifts his coat from the hook and slips into it. The buttons give him a spot of trouble, and he decides to just leave them undone. It's not as cold out tonight as it has been lately, and he has his hat, scarf, and gloves anyhow. He takes his leave of Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Barrow, but notices the others seem to have already headed home for the evening. A look at his pocket watch tells him it's a bit later than he'd thought, and he wonders when it was that his idea of a 'late night' became eight or nine instead of after midnight.

The gravel crunches loudly beneath his feet, the sound snapping and grinding in the silence of the servants' yard. Charles walks slowly, breathing in the crisp air and watching as his breath escapes upon each exhale into a puff of steam. He's reminded of when he was a very small boy and he'd pretend he was a fire-breathing dragon straight out of a fairy tale book, and how Ma and Da would laugh at his exuberance.

He's not thought of that in decades, and it strikes him as very odd that he'd think of it tonight, of all nights, given that it's the only day he's spent at the Abbey in weeks when he's not spotted at least one of the upstairs or downstairs children in his travels or been wrapped up in one of their make-believe play times.

Before he knows it, Charles's feet carry him around the side of the house. He knows Elsie will be a bit longer still, but she'll find him. She was right; he has been aching to see the house again from this angle, lit up in all of its splendor, and he stands before the door as if waiting for the family to return. The gravel is neater in front of the house, as it should be, and he's happy things aren't slipping now that he isn't the one in charge to ensure that they don't.

Just as he turns to look out over the property, the door opens behind him and the very man whose work he was pondering shows his face and nods before turning to assist the Dowager Countess through the door.

"Carson. I knew I spotted you walking by the window," she says to Charles.

"Milady?"

"I would a word. Preferably away from the others." She turns to Mr. Barrow, who is waiting to see if she needs any further assistance. "Thank you, Mr. Barrow. Good night."

"Good night, Milady." He nods, then closes the doors firmly behind them both.

Violet and Charles are silent for a few moments, the former composing what she has to say in her head while the latter waits patiently for her to gather her thoughts. He knows where this is probably going and it's a conversation he's been dreading immensely, but he did wonder if she'd seek him out at some point.

"I know you're aware of my ... situation," she begins. Her voice is quiet, but strong.

"I am, Milady," he replies. "That is to say, I am aware that you've been feeling poorly."

"You're aware that I'm dying," she says bluntly. "Which is good; I'd hate for my son to have kept it from you." Violet looks him in the eyes. "I trust it _was_ Lord Grantham who conveyed the message, rather than my granddaughter?"

Charles gave her a nod, already feeling his emotions beginning to betray them both. He'd not have been able to bear that news coming from Lady Mary, and he assumes that both she and her father realized that as well.

"It'll be months, not years, I think. I did end up visiting Dr. Clarkson at Lady Mary's insistence, and he agrees."

She shuffles her foot. "Walk with me, Carson."

Charles offers her his arm, which she gratefully accepts, and he tucks her hand in where Elsie's normally rests. The difference in how they feel is something of which Charles is acutely aware. They stroll away from the front of the house in order to turn around and see it in all its nighttime magnificence.

"I never get tired of seeing this house at nighttime," she confides in him. "It's truly beautiful, particularly at Christmas."

Charles considers his words carefully. "It has a legacy in which you've played a crucial role, if I may say so, Milady. Very crucial, indeed."

"In keeping it afloat, you mean." She shocks him but he's not sure why; after all, she's always spoken her mind.

"In keeping it _vital_."

Violet thinks about that. "You're right, I think, and I thank you for reminding me of that."

Their attention is drawn to a flutter in one of the windows.

"That'll be your wife, turning out the light before she comes back to find you absent from her sitting room," Violet says. She examines him, this tall, strong man beside her, and wonders. "Tell me, Carson, is marriage treating you as I hoped it might?"

"Milady?"

"When you came back to us," she says, her voice soft but with emotion she doesn't do well at hiding, "all those years ago, seeking something here that you couldn't find in dance halls or magic tricks. Does _she_ keep you strong now, steer you true?"

He stiffens, his brow furrowing as the words pull at something in his mind, and then he has it.

_A warm afternoon, so warm that the air in the church that morning had been stifling ... embarrassment at having returned, hat in hand, a failure ... words stumbling from his mouth as he spoke in a deep, downtrodden voice to the woman who stands beside him now, the feeling in his breast when she told him that Downton would always be-_

"My light in the dark," he whispers, and he looks steadily ahead at the lights flickering in every window of the Abbey, welcoming whomever should happen upon it in the night. "She is, Milady. That, and much more, if I'm to be embarrassingly honest."

Charles feels her squeeze his arm.

"I knew she would be," she whispers. "_Has been. _Of all the romances I've seen come and go through this house, Carson, yours is one of the truest. You've built a lifetime of love and respect for one another, and I daresay your wife makes sure you're equals in most things - even when it's not necessarily proper."

She pauses, and he sees the tears filling her eyes. "It makes it easier for me to go, knowing you'll be well taken care of down the road."

He opens his mouth to protest but she shakes her head, forbidding him to say the words. She doesn't wish to be told that he's not part of the family when they both know that's not entirely true. But she also knows that it would be too difficult for her to say aloud how much he means to her, that over the decades he's become her ally and confidant and something akin to a friend as well as a servant. Yes, it would be too difficult for her to say it, and perhaps it would be a bit too difficult for him to hear it, even if he is no longer in the family's employ.

Charles hears the sound of the motor coming up the drive - and then, much closer, the sound of Elsie's footsteps as she comes to find him.

"I didn't realize you were still here, Milady," Elsie says. "Although it explains why Mr. Carson has strayed so far from the servants' yard."

"I wished to have a word with your husband," she replies. "And to see the lights. As always, you've all done Downton proud. The house looks spectacular."

Elsie turned to see the full effect, the Abbey glowing in the nighttime with the small lights in each window, their glow illuminating greenery in some and spots of red ribbon in others, wreaths on the doors. It is understated, but even Elsie - for whom Downton has never been as mesmerizing as it has for her husband - is forced to admit that it's quite impressive.

"Thank you, Milady. I'll be sure to pass along your compliment to the rest of the staff."

The car pulls up and Elsie watches her husband help the old woman into the back seat. He leans in to hear something, then backs away and closes the door firmly so that she and her driver can depart.

Elsie and Charles watch the car as it drives off. When the taillights are faint in the distance and then disappear over the small hill of the drive, Elsie makes her way to her husband's side, her arms slipping around his and giving him a gentle squeeze before he places her hand in his elbow.

"Charlie? What was that all about?"

He takes a few moments to reply.

"She's setting her affairs in order, I think," he says slowly. "The human ones, anyhow."

"And you are a part of that?"

"Evidently so_._" He pauses. "She asked me if marriage is treating me as well as she thought it would."

Elsie smiles softly. "She loves you."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

She won't argue with him, not about this. Instead, she moves on to the other question she has in her mind. "Did you tell her? That I've been considering retirement, I mean?"

"I did not; you asked me to keep that between us." His brow crumpled a bit. "You do trust me, don't you?"

She pats his arm. "You know I do. I just can't fathom why else I'd come up in your conversation with her, or why she'd so pointedly tell me how happy she's been with the work I oversee at the house. She rarely sees me, and when she does we don't usually speak, and I can count on one hand the amount of compliments I've received from her since I started working here."

"She holds you in very high regard," he tells her.

"So you keep saying," Elsie replies wryly.

Charles stops, pulling her to the side of the path.

"When I came back to Downton, it was she who heard me out, who gave me a job again, and who told me Downton would always be my home if I wanted it. She said it would be 'my light in the dark,' steering me true and keeping me safe." He reaches for Elsie's hand, picking it up and squeezing it between his own. "And now that she's ... dying ... she wanted to be sure that _you _are my light in the dark now, as she claims she always knew you would be."

Elsie is stunned. And then she looks at her husband and brushes a stray tear from the corner of his eye.

"Your light in the dark," she whispers. "As you, Charlie, are mine."

She takes his elbow and leads him back to the path, back to their cottage, back _home_ ...

... where she just may have a little bit of Christmas magic waiting for him.

_**TBC**_


	13. Merry

Thanks** to all of you who are continuing to read and review this story. I am behind on individual replies but promise to catch up soon! Please feel free to set up an acct if you're reviewing as a guest - that way I can personally thank you, too. xxx**

**CSotA**

* * *

_**22nd of December**_

Elsie wakes before dawn on the morning of the twenty-second. The fire has gone down to very small embers and there is a distinct chill in the bedroom.

Beside her, Charles snores away in a very deep slumber. She wonders if he knows he talks in his sleep sometimes. She can hardly judge him for whispering her name in his dreams, though, for if Charlie knew what was in her own dreams last night and the night before, he'd surely have woken her to see if some of it might happen immediately.

Her face warms as she slides off the mattress and stands, searching for her slippers and retrieving one from underneath the bed where she must've kicked it last night. Her feet securely tucked in, she grabs a few pieces of kindling and lays them on the embers, blowing gently and patiently until one ignites. She watches it for a moment and then, satisfied, she adds a small log to the pile, grabs her robe from the chair by the window, and ducks out of the room without a sound.

As she heads to the kitchen, carefully avoiding that one step that creaks loudly on the left-hand side, she wonders about the dreams. She's never had any like them until a couple of months ago, and certainly never anything remotely close prior to being married. After all, she reminds herself as she puts the kettle on, her mind would not have had the faintest idea what to put in them.

_You know __**now**__, though. _She and Charlie certainly had their struggles in the early days of their marriage, but the physical intimacy they share had never been one of them. True, it had taken a while before all that happened with something resembling finesse, but that wasn't due to a lack of interest or enthusiasm on their parts.

Or wine, now that she thinks back to their honeymoon. A good bit of wine had calmed her nerves - and his - and was probably responsible for the entire act even having happened. They'd experimented with quite a few things during those days away, all under the cloak of darkness, until the very last morning, when Charlie had woken her with caresses and kisses in places she _never_ expected - kisses which, now that she thinks of it, figured heavily in last night's dreaming.

The kettle whistles. She steeps her tea and puts in some bread to toast, famished due to the rushed dinner she'd managed at the Abbey last night between the myriad things that somehow suddenly needed doing. It was a good thing Miss Baxter had taken over the linen rota and that Elsie had finished the stocking when she did, because otherwise Charlie likely wouldn't have had it in time for Christmas.

She takes her cup and saucer into the parlor and then retrieves the stocking from her handbag. She knows Charlie spotted it peeking out last night, but despite his frequent impatience with many things, he's no snoop.

_Not like you, _she tells herself with a bit of shame. Still, overall, Elsie feels her meddling in the affairs of others has so often ended up on a positive, helpful note that she is willing to overlook the little guilt that still resides in her heart over pushing Charles so hard after she'd read his letter from Charlie Grigg.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes she pinches herself, wondering if she's still the same Elsie Hughes that grew up on a struggling farm in Argyll, the same woman who rose from housemaid to housekeeper in record time in one of the most esteemed homes in all of England - the _spinster _housekeeper, as they so often were.

She's no spinster now, and she smiles as she sips her tea and eyes the hastily-wrapped stocking that she's left on Charlie's end of the settee.

Elsie is on her second cup when Charles finally wakens, and although she feels like it's the middle of the morning, it's just past dawn. She turns when he comes into the room and presents her cheek for a morning kiss, lifting her fingers to his cheek.

"You're prickly," she observes.

"So I've been told." His voice is still somewhat thick from sleep.

"Your _face,_ you daft beggar." The look on her own face takes any sting out of her words.

"Would you mind getting my cup of tea?"

She glances at him and gets up to heat the water again.

"Not a good morning?"

Charles holds up his hand, which is trembling more than usual. "Must've slept on it funny, I think. It was tingling when I got up but that went away immediately once I was moving about."

"You slept like the dead, or so it seemed."

He watches as she scoops the tea into the pot. "Was I snoring?"

Elsie chuckles. "You're always snoring, Charlie. Not always loudly, but always something."

"I hope I'm not the reason you're up so early today."

"Not at all. And it doesn't bother me; in fact, I had more trouble sleeping here alone the nights you were back at the house for the royal visit than I ever have had sleeping beside your snoring self."

She pours. "Come on; I've got a surprise for you in there."

"Is it the item sitting on the settee?"

"It is."

"You had it at the Abbey last night."

Elsie winks at him. "Sit and open it." She tucks herself into the opposite corner from where he sits.

Charles lifts the package, squeezes it, shakes it, holds it up to his ear-

"Charlie. Just _open it._"

"Fine, fine," he grumbles, but she knows it's all teasing.

He pries the paper back, completely mystified as to what could be underneath it. It's much too small to be any kind of shirt or trousers or blanket, and he doesn't need gloves or a new hat - not that it's the right shape for either of those things anyhow. It's sort of a rolled-up something or other ...

"Oh, _Elsie._"

She looks into his eyes, so full of surprise and love.

"It's ... It's perfect. However did you manage it? You've not had a spare moment!"

"I found moments here and there," she replies. "Granted, I was swearing at the thing and my lack of overall ability, and the overzealousness that made me bite off almost more than I could chew."

"I can't even tell where the damned mice got at it," he marvels, holding it up to the light that's now coming through the window.

"Miss Baxter rescued me," she confesses. "She didn't repair it, mind you - she wouldn't hear of it and besides, I wanted to do it myself." Her eyes drop to the cup that she's holding near her chest. "For you," she adds, her voice much quieter than it was.

Charles reaches over and pats her knee, then squeezes it gently. "It means more than you can guess that you've done this. It's nearly all I have left," he reminds her, and she nods.

"I know. It's funny; I was thinking as I finished the last row that mending your things was something I always helped with in my duties as housekeeper at Downton, but it's completely different now. It _means _more, doing it for my husband."

"Having a wife to do these things ..." He doesn't finish, but she understands.

"Go hang them up, then. Mine's on the back of the chair."

He takes the stockings to the mantle and finds the tiny nails that he'd put in the wood for the sole purpose of hanging their Christmas stockings. He struggles a bit but does secure them, after which he turns back to her and smiles.

"There. It's looking rather merry in here now. Quite festive, what with the garland and the tree and now the stockings."

Suddenly, Elsie remembers something. "Surely the paint is dry on the horse? We should put that cushion together before I head out, and then when the glue dries you can attach it to the seat."

"And I'll bring it down here, I think. Mr. Bates said something about coming on by tomorrow when everyone else is busy at the house with Christmas Eve preparations. His Lordship has an appointment with his solicitor to sort out a few things."

"Yes, I know," she says softly, and she reaches out for his hand and encourages him to sit beside her again, which he does. "With his solicitor and with the Dowager. I'm certain it's to do with her will."

His eyebrows fly up. "How do you know that?"

"Her Ladyship mentioned it," Elsie says simply. "And it makes sense, after all. She'll want to be sure to include Caroline, and Lady Hexham's baby is on the way, too." She doesn't mention the other thing she knows is going to change in the will, the tiny mention of a specific item that the Dowager had asked Elsie about only last month. She wants Charlie to have it, and Elsie confirmed her suspicion that he'd never _accept _it unless it was specified in the will.

Charles snakes his arm over her shoulders and she leans into him, looking out the window and into the snow-dusted, frosty trees beyond. She tries to imagine him as a young hall boy fascinated by a first-edition of a treasured book, tries to envision the first time Lord Grantham's father had handed it to him and told him to be very, very careful to return it in excellent condition to the library. That book had become Charlie's favorite over the years, and while Elsie suspects its monetary value is quite impressive, the sentimental value it will carry as the book transfers from Lady Violet's shelf at Grantham House to their much more modest one at the cottage will be absolutely beyond measure.

She feels Charlie's lips upon her forehead, pulling her from her musings.

"You need to get dressed," he murmurs against her skin, his stubble prickling her brow.

"I want to retire," she blurts out. "I mean, I'd like to make a plan for it to happen."

Charlie sits back quickly in order to see her face. "I see." His heart pounded at her words, but he doesn't wish to give that away.

"I know we've discussed it loosely and decided that we'd be comfortable financially."

He nods twice, slowly. "We would. If you wished to retire within the next ..."

"Year," Elsie supplies, and he beams at her.

"Within the next year, then we should think about selling the other house. Unless you want to move into it and rent it out as originally planned?"

Elsie swatted at his leg playfully. "That was never _truly _the plan, was it?"

"Actually, yes. I didn't know if you'd accept me as your husband, although I suspected, but at least with an investment property, I knew we'd be together for as long as we were both around."

Elsie stands and rolls her shoulders, wincing as one of them cracks and gives her instant relief. "Well, you're stuck with me now, remember. But I could never leave our cottage, I don't think. We've just barely begun this part of our lives, and I want my retirement to be about settling down and not another upheaval."

He smiles. "I agree. We can discuss it more later, but now, Mrs. Carson, you need to get moving."

She takes his cup and brings it to the kitchen with hers. From where she stands by the sink, she can hear him rustling about with the fire before settling back on the settee with yesterday's newspaper, looking for any small detail he might have missed. It's the picture of retirement, and she can't wait to be spending every morning by his side, with no rushing out of the house necessary whatsoever.

"Are you sure you'll be able to stand having me under foot all day?"

Charles looks up from the paper and glances at her. "It's the nighttime I should be more concerned with," he replies with a smirk.

"I beg your pardon?"

He looks back at the paper. "You talk in your sleep, woman."

Elsie's eyes go as wide as saucers. "You've never told me that before," she whispers, aghast. "Did I do so last night?"

"Why?" He turns the page, feigning seriousness. "Were you dreaming anything particularly juicy last night that I should know about?"

She approaches him and ruffles his hair with her fingers, then leans down and kisses him chastely on the cheek.

"You may never know, Mr. Carson."

He watches as she heads toward the stairs to get ready for work.

"I may know already, Mrs. Carson."

He hears her laugh echo in the hallway, and he smiles.

_Retirement,_ he thinks. _It's about damn time._

**_TB__C_**


	14. Nutcracker

**A/N: IDK what happened here, but this chapter started having technical issues and displaying as Ch 11 before. I had to delete and repost, so if you know you've seen this, just move along to Ch 15. Xx**

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_**22nd of December**_

By the time she arrives at the Abbey, Elsie has managed to clear her head of thoughts of retirement. It really isn't the right time to make those firm decisions and she knows and accepts that, but Charlie seemed delighted that she is considering handing in her notice within the year. Lord and Lady Grantham are thinking of moving to their home in London on a year-round basis, according to what Elsie has gleaned from comments Lady Grantham has made, and she is not sure she'd want to be housekeeper with Lady Mary Talbot as her direct employer ... although she has not voiced as much to Charles.

That situation also would also not bode well for keeping his Lordship's current valet. Elsie and Charles both know that the Bateses are considering the purchase of the Grantham Arms if (and, from what Charles has gleaned on several separate occasions from chats in the village, _when_) it goes up for sale. The current owner is aging and just lost his son to flu, and the poor man simply cannot keep going on his own for much longer. If all goes as Charles foresees, John Bates will be leaving his own post regardless of his Lordship's place of residence, and if that's the choice he makes then Anna will likely follow suit.

Elsie smiles as she pushes open the door of the servants' entrance. Things are changing, indeed. There was once a time when she dreaded the thought of people leaving, be it of their own volition or not: Mrs Patmore's eye surgery before the war, her future as cook in question; dark days when Charles planned to follow Lady Mary to Haxby and work for that dreadful Mr. Carlisle; Mr. Bates in prison, twice, followed by his wife ... too many more to mention. But now the changes seem to be more positive, depending on one's point of view. Lady Mary and Mr. Branson have taken Downton firmly into the future through changing management strategies and investment planning. There's a new generation of children padding through the halls, a new set of Christmas stockings hanging from bedposts in the nursery. Daisy and Andrew, settling a wedding; Mr. Barrow, finding his way despite his still not being able to confide in anyone else about it.

_No, that's not quite right, _Elsie reminds herself. He confides in Miss Baxter, and Elsie can certainly see why. She's glad he has that friendship and was happy to see it didn't become awkward or seem to change at all now that he's the butler of the house.

A cracking sound comes through the kitchen door as Elsie passes by. She smiles, knowing instantly what it is, and steps back to poke her head through.

"When the nutcracker comes out, then I _know _it's Christmas!"

"We use it at other times, too," the cook replies, setting the iron device aside, but she waves a hand over the counter and adds, "Not quite this much, though. Starting with the Christmas pudding and straight through until New Year. One of these years, I should count up all the nuts we end up using just in the month of December!"

The counter is littered with pecan shells at the moment, which Elsie knows are to be for Christmas biscuits.

"Any chance of making off with a few of those tonight?" she asks hopefully. "He loves them."

The cook looks up. "As if I don't know that! Yours are already in the oven. Will a dozen do?"

Elsie's face brightens. "Thank you! If you're sure it's no trouble, that is."

"Of course not! It's just a few biscuits, and you need to keep that grumbly pensioner happy, don't you?"

Elsie opens her mouth to retort that it isn't Christmas biscuits she uses to keep her husband happy, but she thinks the better of it, clamps her lips shut, and heads to her sitting room.

She'd been settled in for about half an hour going over accounts when Anna pops in, tea tray in hand.

"Do you have a few minutes?"

Elsie turns and sees the worried look on Anna's face. "For you? Of course." She gets up to close the door behind the younger woman, and Anna sets the tray down on a small side table, pouring the tea as Elsie returns to her desk. Anna takes the chair closest to the housekeeper and sits down in it, exhausted.

"Whatever is the matter?" Elsie stacks her papers down on the desk and lays her pen atop them, having set her specs aside when she'd heard the knock. She pulls her chair closer to Anna's and reaches for her tea.

Anna gives a half-smile. "I could lie to you, I suppose, but the truth is I could use five minutes off my feet and someone to tell me I'm not crazy."

Elsie's eyes widen. "Well, now I'm all ears. And for what it's worth, you're not crazy."

"You've not heard me out yet," Anna says, chuckling, and she watches as her superior raises an eyebrow and purses her lips.

"Try me." She examines Anna intently, wondering if... but, no. She doesn't _think_ so, anyhow.

Anna sees right through her. "I'm not expecting, if that's what you're thinking."

"Well, I did wonder for about five seconds, but your color is good. As for those tired eyes and your exhaustion at half seven in the morning, I'm attributing those things to being the mother of an active little one."

"Quite right. But that's actually not related to what I wanted to ask you."

"Oh?"

"No." Anna twists her hands in her lap. "It's Mr. Bates, actually. He's been - well, not quite himself the last few days. He's disappeared a couple of times and not told me where he's gone. He's being secretive about something, that I definitely know, but it's so unlike him since ... you know. Since things have gotten better. Since Johnny."

Elsie sighs. She's promised not to reveal the small surprise about the horse, but she can't imagine that's what's got Anna worked up. Still ...

"Is it possible he's planned a Christmas surprise for you, something like that he's keeping from you?"

Anna shakes her head slowly. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

"What are your plans? Johnny is old enough now to see some of the magic in the gifts and the lights."

Anna brightens at that. "He is. We'll all be here on Christmas Eve, of course, but we've been given the morning off."

"Have you? That's funny. So have we."

Anna grins. "I know. Lady Mary mentioned that to me, actually. It seems she and Mr. Talbot are planning a small, casual family gathering with the others."

"I was just thinking as I was walking here this morning about how much things have changed around here, but that one may be one of the best changes of all."

"Well," Anna confides, "Mr. Talbot grew up differently - as did Mr. Crawley, of course. I think that influence carries some weight when the holidays come around. One needs to compromise and incorporate a bit of both. And it's nice to see Lady Mary and Lady Edith* getting along for a change."

"That's very true."

Elsie looks at the woman before her, so much a part of her life and her heart that she suddenly can't imagine not seeing her every day.

"Mr. Carson tells me the Grantham Arms is likely to be up for sale in the next four months," Elsie says. "Could that be what's got Mr. Bates so preoccupied?"

"It could be, and I did think of that. But that's an exciting prospect, not a secretive one. His Lordship knows we've been discussing it and has even offered to put in a word."

"He's helping himself into needing a new valet, then," Elsie observes.

"I know. And it's strange on the one hand, but on the other ..."

"They have a mutual respect, those men," Elsie says, nodding. "I know a bit of what that's like."

"Of course. And if it were you and Mr. Carson in our position, I'm sure the offer would be the same, regardless of the loss it would mean for the family."

"I'm sure it would."

They're quiet for a few moments, and Anna visibly relaxes the longer she sits.

"If you ask me, all you needed was a quiet space to gather your thoughts," Elsie advises kindly. "My door is always open to you, and although I cannot promise no one will ever disturb you when you're in here, it does tend to be a bit of a respite from the noise in the rest of the house."

"Perhaps you're right. I still think my husband is up to something, though."

"Well, you know it wouldn't be something nefarious. The two of you have had three lifetimes' worth of trouble; he'd certainly not go seeking anything resembling _more_."

"That's true, I suppose. Especially not now that we have Johnny."

"Precisely."

Elsie is thoughtful as she finishes her tea. "Do you think it'll be hard, leaving? Will you miss it?"

Anna appears taken aback. It was a question she definitely had not seen coming.

"I suppose. Downton was the first _good _home I ever had."

"You met your husband here. Made friends. Lots of memories." Elsie's voice is soft, her tone thoughtful.

"The same can be said for you," Anna observes, and her eyebrows rise; the inquisitive look has been turned upon the housekeeper, now.

"That's true."

"To answer your question, yes. It'll be hard in some ways, not seeing the same people every day, not having the same routine. There will be people we'll miss, of course." She stops speaking, hesitant, before holding her hand out; Elsie, emotional, clasps it. "And people we hope will visit regularly," Anna continues. "Particularly once they ... retire?"

Elsie nods, swallowing no small amount of emotion. Anna's words could so easily have been her own - all of them but the first ones; Elsie, after all, had a good life at home when she was young.

"I think ten months," Elsie confides. "But please don't say anything to anyone else - _especially _Lady Mary. But I think I'd like to retire before the cold weather sets in next year. I'm not cut out for these walks through it every morning, I can tell you that."

"Worth it, though, I bet." Anna gives her a knowing smirk.

Elsie thinks back to earlier, to the easy morning at home, pottering about in her robe and seeing the sun come up, being able to give her husband a gift and see his joy as he opened it - emotion he'd not as easily have shown were they both still living at the big house. The ability to cuddle and touch him openly without being surrounded by others who might see.

"Very," she replies.

There's an uptick in activity in the corridor, and Anna and Elsie sigh in unison.

"I'd better go. Lady Mary will be up soon and I need to touch something up on her dress for Christmas Eve."

"And I need to get back to these invoices and sort which still need paying. They all come in at once this time of year and it's positively maddening."

"You know," Anna says as she arranges their cups on the tray again, "there used to be many days when my greatest dream was for you to pass that chatelaine over to me one day. It's funny how life is."

"Life alters us all, as someone once told me," Elsie answers. "What's your greatest dream now, if I might ask?"

Anna lifts the tray and makes her way to the door, then turns back to answer.

"For my son to go to university," she says. "None of my family ever made it very far in school, but life is different now."

"It is at that."

Elsie watches as Anna leaves, and her fingertips brush the chain of her chatelaine.

"There were many, many days when I thought I'd be passing it to you, dear girl," she whispers. "But you don't need its protection any longer."

She turns back to her invoices and notices the scent of the pecan cookies has made it down the corridor to her room. She can't wait to see the look on Charlie's face when he opens the box and sees them.

Christmas isn't just for children, she knows; sometimes, small bits of its magic touch curmudgeonly, retired butlers, too.

* * *

***I know she's not _technically_ "Lady Edith" anymore, but I do believe Anna would still refer to her that way when speaking with Elsie.**

**Thanks for checking this one out, friends. I'd love to know what you thought. xx**


	15. Ornament

**Due to technical issues, please be sure you've read "Nutcracker" prior to reading this one. Somewhere along the line, the material for that chapter became "Knitting." IDEK ... x**

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The tree at Downton Abbey is always a thing of beauty, its arrival a pinnacle of the season. Brought in off the land of the property itself, each tree is cultivated with love and care, chosen with attention to fullness, health, size, and color.(*I have no idea)

This year, however, the tree itself seems to surpass everyone's expectations. Perhaps it's the fact that there are more children about - meaning more magic to behold - but Elsie wonders if it's also the need to grasp onto something special for what is almost certainly the Dowager Countess of Grantham's last Christmas with the family.

Elsie walks around the tree, adjusting small bits and baubles here and there as she sees fit. The fragrance from the tree fills her senses and reminds her of home and the garland that Charlie had put up to surprise her. As she reaches for a velvet bow, her wrist brushes up on a different item. She tightens the wire on the bow and straightens the ruffle before turning her attention to the other ornament. She's curious, for she doesn't recall ever having seen this one before. After all her years at the abbey, years when Elsie and her maids would bring down the boxes for the family to go through, she knows each item that goes on it by heart ... but this one, _this _ornament is most certainly new. She takes it down and holds it up in the light, examining it this way and that and wondering if it would trigger some memory or other.

It doesn't.

She pulls her spectacles from her pocket and, as a last-ditch effort, puts them on. No one at work ever sees her in them if she can help it (a small vanity that she allows herself, this thought that every woman must have one thing they keep private), but her curiosity is piqued such that she cares more about the ornament than the chance of being caught out with failing eyes.

The ornament is a small porcelain woman. She has long dark hair that's tied back but falling in curls down her back. She's holding a small fan and a parasol, and her long dress is ...

_Violet._

Elsie's skin breaks out in goose flesh and she feels a pang in her heart. She knows without a doubt that the Dowager has snuck this ornament onto the tree in the past week, or perhaps that she asked her eldest granddaughter to do it for her. It's such a poignant way to put her last mark on something that means so much to the family; after all, Christmas is by far their favorite celebration. Elsie realizes that because the maids pack up everything on the evening of the twelfth day, it's likely that no one will see this ornament until next year. The tree on the whole is, of course, immense and covered with other baubles. Elsie doubts anyone will pick up on one new addition, particularly tucked away as it was. They don't check up to make sure things are even and steady and safe like Elsie does. After all, it's not their job.

Elsie takes another look at the figurine, her brow furrowing as she takes in each detail again.

The significance that the woman holds a fan is not lost on her. The rumors were grand when the Russian prince had sought refuge in Downton, but Elsie kept her peace and kept her objectivity. She didn't find it particularly difficult that the Dowager would have found love outside of her marriage, she just found the speculation around it all to be a bit too much. But when the man had visited the Abbey, when they'd had that display with the egg and the fan and whatnot, and Elsie had _seen_ the smoldering look the prince had given the woman in passing one day - a day when Elsie had been straightening the flowers in the great hall and was probably, to the other two people in the hall with her, invisible - and it had stopped her in her tracks.

And now, desperately in love with Charlie and enjoying a marriage full of that love, that intimacy and deep connection, she thinks perhaps all that speculation was entirely true.

And how she holds in her hand the fragile figurine - perhaps Lady Grantham's way of owning that period in her life, an offering of peace and love that represented the peace and love _she _had felt all those years ago.

Elsie hangs the ornament on a slightly higher, sturdier branch. She steps back and makes sure everything is even, the faces of the other ornaments visible between branches and tucked around lights, and she smiles sadly, wondering if she'll ever drum up the courage to tell Charles about her discovery.

* * *

Charles releases the clamp from the seat gently and allows the cushion to plump back up. He tests the hold, pressing a bit on the side of the cushion, and is satisfied to see it's stuck very firmly. He carries the horse to the tree, sets it between the tree and the front door, and nods approvingly. It's the very picture of Christmas that they have going in the cottage now, with the garlands, bows, candles, tree, and gifts waiting to be opened.

He heads upstairs, returning to the spare room. The rocking horse hadn't been the only gift he'd tucked away up there. He retrieves two of the gifts he has for Elsie - the one that had come from Mrs. Adler's peculiar shop, and the one he purchased in the general store only yesterday, on a whim. The former will be her Christmas morning surprise, but the latter is not in need of wrapping. It's an ornament, and he'll be giving it to her tonight.

Charles lifts the bulb up to the light. It's clear, but someone has painstakingly painted a scene on the inside, reflecting two small children riding in a sleigh. A reindeer pulls it through the woods, and the children's faces are alight with glee. He places it in a small box and brings it downstairs, setting it on her dinner plate. He's had the table set for dinner since approximately ten in the morning, and it occurs to him that he just may need a new hobby for the upcoming year.

Downstairs, Charles pulls the drapes closed. He turns on the electric tree lights, then steps back to admire the look of it all. Clapping his hands together and rubbing them, he realizes something:

He's completely, totally bored.

He looks around the house for something to do and finds nothing. The drafty spots in the windows have been covered, the squeaky door hinge was oiled last week. There are never dirty dishes in the sink and he's already put away the clean ones. The floors are swept, the gifts are all wrapped, and the horse for Johnny Bates is finished. Heaving a sigh, he looks at his pocket watch again, wishing it were Elsie's half day. It isn't, though, and he knows she won't be home for another three hours at the very least.

It's then that he hears a knock on the door.

Curious, he peers through the peephole before opening the door. The face he sees is perhaps the last one he expected. He opens the door quickly, cognizant of the cold, and ushers his visitor inside.

**Dun, dun, DUNNNN. Who could it be? *thinkythinkthink*  
Well, there are so few downstairs peeps who've not yet appeared ...**

**Hope you enjoyed this brief interlude and that the website has sorted its issues and indeed posted the correct chapter material!**

**Xxx**

**CSotA**


	16. Peppermint

**A/N: Thank you so much for all of your support for this story. The holiday season is a busy time for everyone, and I appreciate all the kind words of review and the folks who are reading and enjoying this. Unfortunately, reviews are being wonky and I cannot reply individually this morning. But please keep leaving them! I'll catch up as soon as they're back up and running.**

**This is definitely another of my top five favorite chapters that I wrote for this fic. It stars a character I struggle writing for and yet have fun with at the same time. Go figure. I hope I've done him justice. Xxx**

**CSotA**

* * *

Charles is flabbergasted. He certainly wasn't expecting anyone to show up at the house today, least of all Mr. Molesley. And to arrive unannounced is very unlike the man. Charles knows it must be important; his feeling has always been that Joseph Molesley has chosen to avoid him unless absolutely necessary.

Showing up on his doorstep, therefore, does not necessarily bode well, and Charles has a fleeting fear that perhaps Elsie has suffered a fall or something similar, but he realizes immediately thereafter that someone would more likely have picked up the phone to ring him as opposed to sending a messenger on foot.

"Mr. Carson," Joseph utters, clearly nervous. "I'm so sorry to intrude on your day."

Charles takes a deep breath and straightens himself to his full height, stepping aside and waving an arm to indicate his welcome. "Please, come in, Mr. Molesley. I must say, it's quite a surprise to see you."

He rethinks that, imagining what Elsie would have said. "Not an unpleasant one, mind. Just a surprise. We've never had a chance to welcome you to our home."

Joseph's eyes widened. "Wait-" He looks around. "_We? _Mrs. Hughes - I'm sorry, Mrs. _Carson_ \- except she's Mrs. Hughes up the big house ... of course you know that, why wouldn't you? ... She's not _here_, is she?" By the time he managed to take a breath, his somewhat wheezy voice had climbed to a considerable squeak.

Charles's own eyes narrow just a fraction. "No," he says slowly. "Is that a problem, that she is not here?" He watches as Joseph lets out what appears to be a huge sigh of relief.

"No! No, that's fine. That's wonderful - I don't want to see _her_! That is ... Oh, that didn't sound good." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lets it out, and begins again, making his way very slowly through his words. "What I mean is that it's you I've come to see, Mr. Carson."

Charles nods slowly; he'd surmised that much several words ago, and he needs to at least get the other man more than three steps into the house. "Just come in, Mr. Molesley," he says calmly, stepping aside so that Joseph can pass, "and I'll take your coat. And then I can close this door, because it is quite cold out, isn't it?"

"Oh! Oh, my, yes. Yes, it is." Joseph practically jumps out of the way, and he manages to calm down enough to remove his coat and hat. He's not sure what to do with them, however; he certainly doesn't want Mr. Carson to feel like _his _butler, although it's the Carsons' cottage and he doesn't want to be presumptuous ...

"Here, just give those to me," Charles says kindly, and he removes the coat and hat from Joseph's grasp and places them on the hook next to his own. "Why don't you go on in, hm?"

Joseph walks through to the living area and stops short, examining all he sees before him, clearly surprised by this first glimpse of the Carsons' cottage. His countenance immediately softens as he looks around and Charles notices a smile on the man's face now, and something he thinks might just be akin to wonder.

"It's not much, mind, but it's ours."

"Not much?" Joseph is clearly astonished at the choice of words. "Mr. Carson, it's perfect."

Charles feels himself puff up a bit, full of pride. He watches Joseph as he meanders around the room and appears to examine each and every item in it: photographs on the mantle, the Christmas tree, books on the shelves. The man seems to find something wondrous in everything, and it gives Charles a sense of happiness - a very welcome feeling, given that he'd first thought he might end up being quite uncomfortable at the thought of welcoming Joseph Molesley into his home, particularly without having Elsie there as a buffer.

"You caught me in the middle of preparing some hot cocoa," Charles says. "May I get some for you?"

Joseph looks up. "Cocoa?"

Charles can't help but chuckle. "With a dash of peppermint," he clarifies, eyebrows raised. "I don't indulge that often, mind you, but it's bitterly cold today and it seemed like a good idea when I had it."

"Well, that's very kind. I'd love some, Mr. Carson. Thank you."

Charles leaves Joseph to peruse the contents of the bookshelf. Back in the kitchen, he adds a bit more milk to the pan on the stove and turns up the heat, then prepares an extra mug - with a very _small _amount of peppermint schnapps for Joseph. When the milk begins to simmer, Charles adds the chocolate - nearly all of what they have left. He adds _chocolate_ to the small list he keeps on the table for the shopping, stirs the contents of the small pot until the chocolate has melted completely, and takes it from the burner before turning down the fire.

His hand begins to shake a bit when he goes to pour, but it's not bad and he's thought to remove the mugs from the tray beforehand, so a quick wipe with the cloth takes care of the dribbles. He manages to get the tray back to the parlor without incident, and Joseph takes his mug.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," he says, inhaling the sweet fragrance. "This is quite lovely, I must say. Here I am, come to ask you for some help, and you're waiting on me!"

Charles knows he has to put the man at ease if they are ever going to get around to the topic of conversation he had in mind. "You're a guest in my home, Mr. Molesley." He lifts an eyebrow and smiles. "That's generally how it works."

"Yes, I suppose. I'm just not used to that." Joseph looks over at the mantle. "Those must be your parents?" he asks, deftly changing the subject for the moment.

Charles moves closer and reaches out for the picture he knows Joseph is referring to; it is, indeed, his parents' wedding portrait. "Yes. My grandparents gave them this portrait as a wedding gift," he says. "My mother was so proud of it. It may have been her favorite possession, now that I think about it. Most people didn't have one done back then, because of the cost of the sitting."

"It's lovely that you have it. I don't have one of my parents where they're together," Joseph says. "For much the same reason, I imagine. They never had much to speak of in the way of money when I was a boy, and probably less before I came along and Dad got work up at the big house."

Charles looked at his visitor, feeling a new and unexpected sense of kinship. "My father started at Downton as a groom in the stables. Did you know that?"

"No! Did he? I had no idea he'd worked in the stables! I presume that's how you ended up working there, though. At the house, of course. Unless you were a stable boy before that?"

"I started as a hall boy, but then I ended up with a bit more schooling before moving up to footman," Charles tells him, conveniently leaving out the bit about his time treading the boards. "Ma insisted that I have more education than the other hall boys. She had dreams for me, you see."

Joseph smirks. "Well, those ended up coming true then, didn't they!" He laughs. "Butler! You can't go much higher than that, can you?"

"I suppose not," Charles replies. He watches as Joseph's gaze lands on a different picture.

"Is that Mrs. Hu- Mrs. Carson?"

"It is." He sees the question coming and adds, "Those are her parents, and that is her sister, Becky."

It's clear from the photograph that Becky suffers from some affliction or other, even at the tender age she was when the picture was taken. To his credit, Joseph doesn't even flinch.

"I never knew she had a sister. That's quite lovely, innit? I always wished for a younger sibling of my own. I'd have cherished a sister, I think."

Charles moves away from the mantle. "Let's have a seat, Mr. Molesley, and you can tell me what's on your mind."

"Oh! Right. Yes, that's a good idea." He follows Charles to the sitting area and settles himself on the settee, not feeling quite right taking what he assumes is Elsie's chair. He takes another sip of his cocoa.  
"Peppermint," he murmurs. "I'd never have thought to add that. It's quite nice."

"A little treat for a cold day," Charles says. "Warms you from the inside."

"Indeed."

They sit in silence for a few long, relatively uncomfortable seconds.

"Well," Joseph says. "As I said before, I'm in need of a bit of help - well, no, not _help _really. Advice. That's it! I need some advice." He furrows his brow. "I wasn't sure where to go, I'll admit. It's the sort of thing one asks a friend about, 'cept I haven't really got any of those ... well, perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Bates - but, no ..."

"So you've come here."

"Yes, I have." He looks up, and for once his eyes are clear and focused, and the trembling in his hands seems to have stilled. He takes a deep breath, and his words come out in a rush. "I need to know how to propose marriage to a woman, Mr. Carson."

Charles sits back, astonished. "Do you?"

"It's Miss Baxter," Joseph clarifies. "I mean, I have the woman in mind, and it's her. It's not just _any _woman! Not a stranger or ..." His voice dies in his throat.

"No," Charles replies, bemused. "I wouldn't think it would just be anyone. I did presume she was the woman in question."

"Right. Well, what I need to know is ... How do I do it? I mean, I know what I need to say. For words. But how do I know when? And ..." He swallows, embarrassed, and looks down into his cup of cocoa. "How do I make sure the words come out the right way?"

Charles sets his mug down on the side table and takes a deep breath, resting his hands on his knees. "Truth be told, Mr. Molesley, I'm not sure if I'm the right person to answer that."

Joseph's head snaps up. "Oh, but you have to, Mr. Carson! I've got no one else!"

And, in that instant, Charles feels as if his heart skips a beat in his chest. He blinks once, twice, and suddenly sees the man before him with fresh eyes. He thinks back on Joseph's claim that he has few, if any, friends, and Charles knows it to be true. They'd lost Bill Molesley a year ago now and it had been a huge blow to everyone at Downton, but Charles tries to imagine just how much of a blow it would have been to Bill's only son who was suddenly left very, very alone in the world, save a few servants at a country home ... and one in particular among them.

"I didn't mean that I won't try to help you, because I will." He pauses.

"But?"

Charles sighs. "I've never actually told anyone about the night I proposed to Elsie," he says quietly, using her first name as a way to put Joseph more at ease. "It was, I'm ashamed to admit, nearly an utter disaster."

Joseph is shocked. "What?" He can't imagine _anything_ Charles Carson does as being anywhere near 'an utter disaster.'

"It's true," Charles says, nodding. "I was absolutely terrified, and nothing came out right at all. I'd rehearsed what I wanted to say a hundred times, planned it all out perfectly, and it all went bottoms up as soon as we were facing each other. At one point I was shaking, and I felt as if time had slowed to a near standstill."

"Bu- but," Joseph sputters. "But you're married now! So surely you did something right!"

Charles thinks back, trying to remember, but it's all sort of hazy in his mind. "I imagine I did," he says. "We did, as you've pointed out, get there in the end."

"So what do I say? I mean, I assume at some point I need to get down on one knee and actually _say _'Will you marry me?' Or maybe it should be 'Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?' Which of those is better? Does it matter?"

Smiling, Charles shakes his head. "It doesn't matter at all. I don't think I managed to get anything like that out. I recall declaring that I was asking her to marry me, and I wasn't quite sure she said 'yes' at first because she seemed a bit ... well, shocked."

"Oh, my god," Joseph says, and the color drains from his face. "What if Phyllis - I mean, Miss Baxter - what if she's shocked, too? She might not even answer! I never even _thought _that she might not answer!"

"She'll answer," Charles reassures him. "Now, listen to me very carefully."

Joseph sips his cocoa - a rather large, fortifying gulp - and settles. "Right."

Charles licks his lips, contemplating just how much he wishes to reveal. He's very private, as a general rule, and Joseph knows that. But the poor man has come to him for advice, and Charles's mind replays all of the false starts and misunderstandings of his early days negotiating a proposal and engagement, and he realizes he has a good deal of decent advice he can give. And if he and Elsie have learned anything over the past few years, it's that clear communication is crucial at times such as these.

"Do you love her? That's most important. It's not a marriage of convenience, I presume?"

Joseph's pale face flushes. He diverts his gaze to something just over Charles's shoulder. "It's not like at that all, no. At least ... At least, not for me." He remembers back three nights ago, to when he'd given Phyllis a kiss on the cheek, only to receive a rather quick and sneaky one back from her. "No, I don't think it would be for her, either."

"Good, because that's an important thing to make clear. You want to make a life with her, and not just have a companion to take care of you."

"Oh, no. Not at all! It's more that _I_ want to take care of _her_." He sits back against the settee, a soppy grin on his face. "She's spent so much of her life taking care of other people. I mean, it's our job, I know that. But she's never had a moment's peace, not even when she was small. She deserves that."

"You've not had it any easier, I'd wager," Charles reminds him.

"No, Mr. Carson, that's true. But I love her, and I want her to feel loved and cared for." He looks around. "I want her to have a home like this someday - someday soon, I hope! Full of the things that make up our lives. A comfortable place to retire at the end of the day."

Charles looks around the room, seeing it all through the eyes of someone who lives alone, surrounded by the ghosts of his parents but with nothing else - no _one _else - to give him comfort in his solitude.

"Then tell her that. All of that, or at least as much of it as you can remember at the time."

"I'll never be able to get all that out, Mr. Carson," Joseph scoffs.

"No," Charles agrees, "probably not. But there is something you should keep in mind, something I hadn't even considered when it was my turn."

"And what's that?"

"You should remember that, unless you've got the situation very, _very _wrong - and I'm quite certain that you do not, having spent some time with the both of you prior to the commencement of my retirement - she loves you, possibly as much as you love her. She'll end up helping you through it if you should falter."

"Is that what happened to you?" Joseph's question is frank, but by now Charles expects it.

"It is." He shifts a bit in his seat, gets more comfortable. "Do you have a date planned?"

"For the wedding?!"

Charles can't help it; he chuckles. "No, Mr. Molesley. Let's not put the cart before the horse. Do you have a day planned to _propose_ to Miss Baxter?"

Joseph rolls his eyes. "Oh, of course! That date! Erm, well, yes. I was hoping to do it on Christmas Eve. So ... in about a day and a half. Before I forget everything you've said, I think!"

He watched as Charles's face softened. "Really?"

"Yes." A horrible thought occurred to him. "Unless that's not done? It seems like a special time, though, and she loves ..."

Charles looks up at him. "Loves the special feeling that Christmas can bring? The feeling of hope?"

Joseph smiles. "Yes, exactly. But how did you know that?"

"It was the date I chose, too, for that same reason. Exactly two years ago."

"Well," Joseph replies, "perhaps that'll be my good luck, then." He drained the last of his cocoa and put his mug down on the table. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. You have no idea how much this has meant to me."

They make their way to the door, and Charles notes with some worry that the wind has picked up, that it's whipping the snow about, and he worries that Elsie will be walking home in it alone. He should have kept his eye on the clock, perhaps, and thinks if he heads out soon he might just catch her before she leaves.

But he has nothing to worry about, for just as Joseph is donning his hat and tightening his scarf, two illuminated spots appear on the roadway, and Charles recognizes them as the headlamps from Lord Grantham's motor.

"Mr. Molesley!" Elsie exclaims as she alights from the vehicle. She pokes her head through the door to thank Tom Branson for running her home, then dashes over to the doorway. "What brings you here?"

"I came for a bit of advice, Mrs. Carson, and I certainly came to the right place. Now you should get inside. It's freezing out here!"

He looks over and sees the car still sitting in the roadway and hears Tom shout something out the window.

"Yes, please!" he calls back, and he turns to the Carsons again. "It looks like I've been saved!"

Charles extends his hand to the younger man, and Joseph shakes it firmly.

"You were wrong, Mr. Molesley," he says quietly. "You _do_ have friends, you know. And you're always welcome here."

Joseph feels a lump grow in his throat, and while he tries to swallow it, it remains. "Thank you for that," he says quietly. "And now I mustn't keep Mr. Branson waiting."

"Good luck to you," Charles calls.

"Thank you!"

Elsie and Charles duck back into the cottage and she shuts the door firmly. "What was all that about?"

"He needed a bit of advice, and I gave it to him."

Elsie pulls off her scarf and hangs it with her coat, and Charles takes her hands, warming them in his own. "You're freezing," he mutters.

"Just my hands," she replies, bussing his cheek, and he keeps hold of one of her hands as he draws her into the dining room.

Elsie spots the ornament on her plate instantly, and she lifts it from the box.

"It's lovely, Charles," she breathes, holding it up to the light and examining it. She walks to the tree and hooks it in the perfect spot, then turns back to find her husband close behind her. She snakes her arms around his neck and gives him a slow, deep kiss of thanks.

"Mmm," she murmurs. "You taste of chocolate and peppermint."

"It was a cold night," he replies, touching his forehead to hers. "And do I have some news for you."

Elsie thinks back to the new ornament on the tree at the Abbey. "I'm sure you do! And after you tell it to me, I have quite a story for you as well."

**_TBC - _*hands over hankie if you need one* X**


	17. Quiet

_**23rd of December**_

The cottage is quiet on this cold December morning. It's early; the sun isn't even up yet. Charles had gotten up to use the loo, one of the aspects of getting older that he and Elsie laugh about, passing one another in the small corridor once or twice a night most nights. But now he's standing by the bedroom window, lifting the curtain away to peek outside. He feels a faint draft upon removing the cloth and thinks it is time to hang the heavier draperies, for the worst part of winter is only a couple of short weeks away. Elsie did that job by herself last year and he would prefer to do it together this year because his heart gives a tiny lurch every time he comes into a room and she's standing at the top of a stepladder on her tiptoes, leaning forward and balancing precariously. Once, he startled her and she nearly fell _because _of him, and ever since then all he can think of is how he never wants her doing anything because it's 'a wife's job' if he can keep her from harm by helping her a bit.

He can't bear the thought of losing her.

They live long days apart when she's working and he isn't needed at the Abbey, and somehow the days she has off, days when they're free to spend together doing whatever they please, go by in a few blinks of an eye.

He turns and looks at the bed, and he's startled by the flicker of what he knows are her beautiful blue eyes staring up at him from her pillow, the moonlight catching them just so.

"I didn't mean to wake you." His voice is very soft, almost husky. It makes her smile, and he returns to bed.

They're silent for quite a while, the only sounds being their steady breathing and the low crackle of the fire in the bedroom hearth.

Charles clears his throat and leans forward, his lips brushing Elsie's ear.

"I love you so much, Mrs. Carson," he whispers, "that sometimes I'm not even sure how to show you or tell you. It's as if there are no words that would be sufficient."

She turns in his arms, looks into his eyes, and sees how overcome he is with his emotions. "Oh, Charlie. What's brought this on?"

But he just shakes his head and gives her a half-shrug.

She shoves her pillow up against the headboard and sits up a bit further. "Come here," she beckons, and he is happy to comply, laying his head over her heart. "Tell me your favorite Christmas memory from when you were a wee lad."

It's an attempt to distract him, and he appreciates it.

"That was a very long time ago."

"It was," she agrees.

He thinks about it for a while, her heart beating in his ear and giving him a sense of peace.

"When I was very young, my granddad lived with us for about a year. That was my favorite Christmas." He lifts his head and looks at her. "Until I met you, that is."

"Really? We were so busy last Christmas that I feel as if I barely remember it."

"That's not the one I meant."

"Oh? And which one _did _you mean?"

"Ahh, that's a story for another time. But regarding the one you asked about, it was the year I was eight. Granddad had the same palsy I have, but his had gotten to a point where he couldn't care for himself at all anymore. His trembling would be just as bad throughout the day as it was in the morning, and he needed help with things like washing and feeding himself."

"How old were you?"

"I was nine when he died, so maybe seven when he came to live with us? It was such a long time ago."

"That's awfully young to be a primary caretaker," she observes.

"Well, you know how it was back then." He reaches for her hand, and she tucks it inside of his. "And it was mostly my parents doing things for him. But having him there for Christmas changed the tone of everything. I think Ma knew it might be his last, and so everything she did just exuded a bit more joy than before. Looking back, I can see the flaws in that thinking. But for a lad of eight ..."

He places a kiss over her heart. "You must have been a caretaker of sorts at eight years old, too, I imagine, with Becky not being far from you in age."

Elsie thinks back to her own childhood, to the farm, tries to recall when she was that age. "I had school, so Mam still took care of Becky in those days. But I think I was in charge of the sheep in the morning," she says quietly.* "It was such a big responsibility and I remember being very proud."

Charles lifts his head and sees her faraway look. "I'm sure your parents were proud as well. Elsie Hughes, already in charge at the tender age of eight."

"It was a hard life," she remembers. "All hands on deck."

"Exactly. Granddad's mind was very sharp, but physically he couldn't manage much. I would come home from the schoolhouse and get him his luncheon, which was normally a sandwich Ma had left in the icebox." He sighed. "I'd have to feed it to him most days, because of the shaking."

His head is back on her chest and she can't see his face, but she doesn't need to.

"You're not your Granddad, Charlie," she says softly, carding her fingers through his hair, still thick despite his age.

"I'm not seventy-two yet," he replies. It comes out as a whisper.

Elsie lifts his chin so that he's facing her again, and she thumbs a tear off of his cheek. "None of that, Mr. Carson. For better or worse, remember?"

"I know." He sits up in the bed, looking over at the window and remembering the quiet beyond. "I'm afraid of that sometimes, though."

Elsie sits beside him and reaches out, takes his face in her hands and kisses him gently.

"In some ways I am, too. But let's not borrow trouble, hm? One day at a time. And I must say, Charlie, that these days we have together ... Well, they're the _best_ days most of the time, aren't they?"

"Now that we're finally here together, you mean."

"Yes, and better at being married," she teases. "Tighter corners on the bed sheets and donated meals are a large part of that."

He chuckles and leans forward to touch his head to hers.

"Christmas is meant to be a happy time, but this year ... I don't know. Sometimes it's harder to see the magic." He sounds defeated, but she thinks she knows why now.

"You haven't known a Christmas away from the Abbey in forty years. They've been your family for all that time. But Charlie, they're _still _your family even though you don't live there." She pauses. "And we both know there's a great sadness on the horizon, and nothing that can be done about it."

"You're right," he says. "But it's not the same, not for me. Now that I'm not there anymore - not _needed._"

"_I_ need you. But I know what you mean, Charlie. It isn't the same as it was, that's true. We'll be there for Christmas Eve, though. We'll see the children and imagine Christmas through their eyes as I know you like to do. We'll go to midnight mass, and then we'll come home together."

"And have a quiet Christmas morning, alone," he adds, and she lifts her face to place a kiss to his forehead.

"I can't imagine anything better," she tells him. "Now come on. We should get some rest."

Charlie lies down and Elsie tucks herself under his arm, smiling when he squeezes her tightly to him.

"It's not that you aren't enough," he says suddenly, and she nearly rolls her eyes at him. Of course he'd still be worrying.

"I know that, you old booby. I didn't take it that way."

"You know I love you." When he says it, it seems so simple and straightforward; he's not afraid of the words like she has been at times.

"I do. And we're making our way well enough."

He smiles, remembering. "It really has been a new life."

Elsie thinks back to Miss Baxter, to the stockings hanging over the mantle downstairs, and of their visit to Becky not long ago. She thinks of Joseph Molesley, of Anna and Mr. Bates, and of Thomas, so eagerly looking forward to his own Christmas plans.

"I have a feeling that it's got a great deal more in store for us." She yawns, and he squeezes her briefly, tightly, dropping a kiss to her head.

"Good night, Elsie."

"Good night, Charlie."

Outside, in the quiet of the early winter morning, soft snow begins to fall.

* * *

***waves to meetmeinstlouie*  
I hope you all liked this. My thanks for the wonderful reviews for the last chapter. This website still will not let me reply to them, but please know how very much I appreciate them all. xxx**


	18. Ribbons

_**23rd of December**_

Elsie isn't at work an hour before Miss Sybbie is knocking upon her door again, but this time it's a rather frantic knock as opposed to her normally reserved one. Jumping up, Elsie opens the door, only to quickly end up with her arms full of one dark-haired, crying girl.

"Whatever is the matter, lass?" For a fearful moment, Elsie wonders if the plan she, Charlie, and Tom Branson had put into play hadn't gone as well as she'd hoped it would. As soon as Sybbie gets her sobbing under control, however, it clearly becomes evident that this is not the case.

"It's my ribbon," Sybbie says, and she hiccups and claps her hand over her mouth. "Excuse me."

"Of course. What ribbon, dear?"

A fresh wave of tears courses down the girl's splotchy cheeks, but she manages to stuff her hand into the pocket of her dress and come up with what appears to be a length of satin ribbon. "This one."

Elsie takes it from her carefully. It's quite crumpled, most likely from having been unceremoniously stuffed down into the pocket. But one end is frayed ... and damp ...

"It was Caroline, Mrs. Hughes," Sybbie explains, and suddenly the dampness makes sense.

Elsie takes Sybbie by the hand and leads her to the chairs by the fire, pulling hers closer to the girl's and letting her tell her tale.

"I had my special ribbon that Papa bought for me," she continues, her words coming out in bursts as she attempts not to cry anymore, and her voice begins to rise. "And I was playing with it with my doll. But then Caroline saw it and took it from me, and I couldn't reach her before she ran across the nursery and hid behind the chair!"

She looks up at Elsie, her wide eyes full of tears still but also a good bit of anger.

"She _chewed it, _Mrs. Hughes. It's ruined!" Sybbie immediately claps her hands over her mouth, knowing she should be quieter.

"How did you get it back?" Elsie knows it doesn't matter, but there is no way she doesn't want to hear the end of _this_ story.

Sybbie's eyes narrow. "I snuck up on her when she was still behind the chair and ripped it out of her hands," she says lowly. "She cried, but it's mine and she - can't - have - it."

_Good for you_, Elsie thinks, but she can't possibly say that out loud. Elsie understands toddlers well enough, but she also knows that Nanny favors Miss Caroline just a bit, and she wouldn't be surprised if that factored into the equation.

"I'm very sorry to hear what happened, Miss Sybbie, although you must remember that Miss Caroline is still very small. She doesn't understand the idea of things not belonging to her. In the nursery, everyone plays with all the same toys, after all."

Sybbie ponders this. "That's true, I suppose. But when she tried to take it the first time, I told her not to. I yelled at her and so Nanny was cross with _me_, but Caroline should have known it wasn't for her because I said 'no.' And Nanny is never angry with Caroline."

"I understand," Elsie soothes, rubbing her hand soothingly over Sybbie's back. But suddenly Sybbie jumps down from her own chair and climbs up on to Elsie's lap.

Elsie wraps her arms around the lass and holds her tightly. "There, there, Miss Sybbie. It'll be all right now. Did you tell Nanny you were coming down here?"

Sybbie doesn't answer, but she leans more heavily on Elsie, tucking herself away as much as she can.

"Miss Sybbie?" Elsie's voice isn't stern, exactly, but it's clear to Sybbie that the housekeeper already knows the answer - and that Sybbie had better tell her.

"No," Sybbie whispers. "I ran out and didn't ask permission."

Elsie loosens her hold on the girl and Sybbie slides off of her lap.

"Well, we can't have that, although I am sure Nanny probably knows where you were headed. You'll need to go back up there and tell her you're sorry, I'm afraid."

Sybbie shakes her head firmly, her eyes wide. "I can't. She'll be so angry. She's _already _angry."

"Precisely, and I doubt it'll be any worse now. What if I come up with you so that you can apologize? And then we'll figure out what to do about your ribbon."

"May I leave it here?" Sybbie asks.

Elsie lays it on her desk and weighs it down with a book, leaving the damp, frayed end sticking out. "There, that'll help to straighten it while we're gone."

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you hold my hand when we go up? And when I say I'm sorry? It'll make me feel a bit ... well, better."

Elsie smiles. "Of course."

She takes Sybbie's hand and marches her up to the nursery, remembering all too well how difficult it was to be a child Sybbie's age and have to deal with a child Caroline's age - one who doesn't know much about appropriate play versus destructive, and one who is rarely disciplined.

* * *

Charles decides to walk to the post office in the hopes that the item he'd ordered has finally arrived, and he's in luck. He heads home and hides it away for later that evening.

By the time he arrives at the Abbey for lunch, Sybbie Branson has calmed completely. Charles spots her in the kitchen with the other children and gives her a small wave through the window. Her face lights up with joy upon seeing him, and he turns the corner to inspect their activity more closely.

"There you are," Mrs. Patmore says with a wink. "I've never known Mr. Carson to miss a Christmas biscuit decorating day. Where've you been, then?"

"I had an errand to run, and then I needed to finish shuttering the cottage for the impending snowstorm," he admits. "It was the last thing I wanted to do when we get back this evening."

Beryl reflects on that for a moment. "No," she says quietly, "I'm sure you have more important things to do. _Warmer _things. Although not on a work day, I suppose."

Charles clears his throat and looks pointedly at one of the biscuits on the counter. "Master George, you're doing a very nice job with that."

"It's for Mummy," he replies, and Charles smiles at the boy's intense concentration, evident by the way the tip of his tongue is sticking out of his mouth.

"Mr. Carson, look at ours!"

Charles makes his way around the counter to see what Sybbie and Marigold have before them.

"Snowflakes! My, my, those are beautiful. And each one different from the others."

"Papa says all snowflakes are different, just like people," Sybbie announces. "Different shapes and sizes but all of them lovely in their own way." She nods, solidifying the proclamation, and Charles is impressed. "Do you see my ribbon, Mr. Carson?"

He looks as she turns and shows him her hair, through which a length of ribbon has been woven through a thin plait that lays over the rest of her hair.

"Oh, my. That's lovely, Miss Sybbie. The color suits your hair."

"Thank you. Mrs. Hughes put it in for me after she cut off the bit that Caroline tried to eat."

Charles is ... well, he's not quite sure _how _to take that particular statement. "She did a very nice job, then," he manages, and he turns his attention back to the cook. "Could you spare a cup of tea, Mrs. Patmore?"

"I'll do you one better, Mr. Carson," she says, and she turns to the kettle and fills a pot, which she deposits on a tray she'd set aside earlier. "Here's two. Bring 'em down to your wife and see that she stays closed up in that sitting room for at least fifteen minutes without anyone interrupting her. She's had a morning, I can tell you."

"I interrupted her," Sybbie says, looking up with wide eyes. "Is she cross with me?"

"Oh, no, lovey, not you," Beryl soothes. "She always loves to see you children. She's just had a busy day with a great many people needing things all at the same time."

"She needs a biscuit," Sybbie replies, and she adds a rather prettily-decorated snowflake to the tray. Then, after a second's thought and a whisper into Marigold's ear (to which she receives a shy nod in reply), she adds another biscuit to the tray and looks up at Charles. "That one's for you."

"Thank you, ladies," he replies, taking up the tray. "We'll definitely enjoy these."

He brings the tray down to Elsie's office and, as suggested, closes the door tightly behind him.

"Oh, bless you," Elsie says, having turned and spotted the tray. "I didn't even manage breakfast today."

"Well, I have two snowflakes here with your name on them - expertly decorated, I'll have you know."

"Surely one of those is meant for you?"

Charles bends down and kisses her forehead. "I had porridge this morning," he explains. "So go ahead."

He pours their tea and hands her a cup, his hand trembling very little today. "How goes the battle, then?"

"Well, Miss Sybbie had a minor emergency at about half eight," she said. "I was available to help because by that point I'd already helped Anna take care of some of Madge's duties because Madge is ill and confined to bed with what appears to be flu - that's why I missed breakfast. Once we got Miss Sybbie sorted, of course, I had my regular meeting with Her Ladyship, except Lady Mary joined us as we were confirming details for the family's Christmas celebrations so that meeting was necessarily longer than usual - not that I'm complaining, because everything was already in good shape there."

"I'm sure it was," he said, reaching for her hand. She took his fingers and squeezed them.

"Quite right. After that, I assisted Mrs. Patmore in going through the final grocery delivery of the week and putting the store cupboard to rights, and then I finally managed to carve out time to wrap all of those." She pointed to the sideboard, which was once again piled with the gifts she still had to wrap. "I have nine more, and I'll be damned if I'm leaving this room until they're done."

Charles sets down his cup and saucer and gets up to examine the gift pile. He sees the small tags written in Elsie's elegant script, remembering so many Christmases past when he'd have a gift or two mixed in amongst them.

"It's strange, not having one over there for you," she says quietly, having easily followed his train of thought.

"Can I help you with them? My hands are behaving today, mostly. I don't know that I can do that fancy whatever-it-is-you-do with the ribbons and the twine, but I can manage some crisp corners, I think."

Elsie smirks. "You wrap, and I'll tie?"

Twenty minutes later, the gifts are splendidly wrapped.

"Charlie, thank you! That went much better with two, I don't mind saying."

"I'd say we work very well together, Mrs. Hughes," he says with a wink.

Elsie gets up from her seat and locks her door, then promptly sits on her husband's lap.

"We do make quite a good team, Charlie." She snuggles him closer, and he manages to land a kiss to her neck. "Mmm, that's nice."

"That's about as risqué as you'll get, too, being here - locked door or no," he advises.

"I know. And from the way this day has gone, I think I have about a minute and a half left of peace."

"Well, then. I suggest you rest your head on mine, and enjoy that minute and a half in complete and utter silence in your husband's arms."

And so, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, that's precisely what she does.

**_TBC_**

**Thank you to all who are still along for this A-Z cheerfulchelsiechristmas journey! I appreciate each and every one of your reviews and commments. xxx**


	19. Snow

**_23rd of December_**

Miraculously, Elsie and Charles prepare to leave for home at around four that afternoon. When it became clear that the snow was coming before nightfall, and given that Elsie was finally, _finally _caught up on all things Christmas thanks to help from Charlie and from Miss Baxter, Thomas Barrow encouraged her to get out while she could.

"That was nice of Mr. Barrow," Charles says as he's slipping Elsie's coat over her shoulders, and she turns and gives him a look. "I mean that. He could have asked you to stay. I noted _he _isn't quite ready for tomorrow yet."

"It's still early," she says. "Besides, it's his first holiday season as butler. You've gotten him sorted with the wines, but you remember how much there is to do. I almost feel guilty leaving."

"It _is_ his first Christmas as butler, I _do_ remember how it was, and _you_ should not feel guilty at all. I'd never have asked you to stay and do my job when I was butler."

"I'd have _offered_ to help if it were back then," she tells him quietly, and she stands tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. "I was a little in love with you, though."

He raises his eyebrows in mock fear. "_Was?_"

She rolls her eyes in jest. "Fine. _Am_."

He acknowledges it with a soft smile. "Well, I actually considered offering to help him myself, but ..." He waves away the thought. "You know."

"Best that you didn't," she agrees, and she does up her last buttons and turns to him with a twinkle in her eye. "Let's go home, Charlie."

They bid the others goodbye and Elsie takes a basket from Mrs. Patmore. It's heavier than normal and the woman gives her a wink, but Elsie's afraid to open it in front of the others. She has her suspicions as to the cause of the extra weight.

Charles tucks Elsie's hand in his elbow as soon as they're outside, and he takes the basket off of her shortly thereafter, not caring one bit that it's typically the wife's job to carry such things. She's tired, she's been working all day, he really hasn't, and there's no reason he can see why he shouldn't help her out a bit.

He wonders when marriage turned him into such a modern man when he'd always thought it would have the exact _opposite_ effect on him.

The snow began before they left, but while it had started as fluff it picks up and becomes much heavier when they're not even a fourth of the way home. They walk more slowly then, as they have to watch every step more carefully in order not to slip.

Charles has an idea as soon as they arrive and he sees the snow that'll need clearing from the front path. It's let up again (hardly atypical for Yorkshire, where the weather never seems to know what it wants to do), and he's grateful.

"Elsie?"

"Hm?" She turns from where she is unlocking the door to face him and sees something bordering on excitement in his eyes.

He looks over at the front lawn, then back at his wife.

It takes Elsie a few seconds, but then a look of astonishment comes over her face. "You can't be serious, Charlie," she scoffs, and she drops the key back in her handbag.

"Of course I am."

"No. Absolutely not." She looks at the garden, then at her husband again. "No."

He sets the basket on the stoop, then takes her hand and pulls her toward the grassy area, which is now covered with about two inches of snow.

"I'll never get up again."

"You will," he insists gently. "I'll help you."

"I'm in my work shoes, Charlie. _No_."

He looks down at her feet. "Stay here."

"What?"

Before she can stop him, Charles ducks into the house and then, about five seconds later, he's back with not her boots but his own, which are considerably larger_._

"You can step right into these with your shoes," he says. "Come on, then. You know you want to."

Elsie looks up into his eyes, her resolve crumbling rapidly. "The insides will be wet from the snow," she protests, but it's weak and she knows it. "And I'm in my work dress."

"Nothing a flannel and some time by the fire won't cure." He watches her intently, silently willing her to agree.

Elsie shakes her head and laughs. "Fine. I surrender!"

"You know you want to," he repeats, and she bites down on her lip, smiling.

"I do," she finally admits. "Especially if it'll make you stop pestering me."

"Here." He takes his own scarf, which is much warmer, and wraps it around the back of her head and ties it in under her chin.

Elsie steps into his boots and fastens them, then makes her way into the yard. With Charles's help, she lowers herself to the ground, lying flat.

"I feel ridiculous," she says.

But Charles has no reply whatsoever. His brain is overwhelmed with so many images: Elsie as she is now, lying in the snow, mixed with his imaginings of what she was like as a young lass, making snow angels with Becky. And there's one other memory, which is about to come with a confession before the night is through.

"Go on, then!"

With a roll of her eyes, Elsie does her best in her long skirts, oversized boots, and arms contained in her heavy coat. Soon enough, her snow angel is complete with a full skirt and wings.

"Getting up is the worst part," she says, and she extends her hand out. Charles grabs hold of the fence post with one hand and his wife's outstretched palm with the other. She gets onto her knees and then, eventually, her feet. She stomps on the ground.

"Theres snow in my skirts somewhere," she mumbles, shaking it out, "but it was worth it if it made you happy."

"Oh, Elsie. Look."

She turns around and sees the perfect snow angel in the garden, and her smile is bright in the light from the street lamp.

"What if you go in and get the fire going and warm up, and I'll stay out here and shovel the path?" Charles suggests.

"Are you sure? I could help you."

"Of course I'm sure." He bends down and kisses her quickly on the lips.

"I'm freezing," Elsie says, "so I accept your generous offer." She knows the shoveling would be mostly his job anyhow, but still ... ordinarily, he'd be the one building up the fires, too.

"I'll be in shortly."

"Don't overdo it, Charlie. We can always walk over it in the morning if need be."

"It's light," he replies. "Not to worry."

Elsie goes inside and takes off her wet clothes, figuring Charlie won't mind if she slips into her warm, dry nightgown and slippers. She returns downstairs and moves the small coat stand into the living room, where she stands it by the hearth and then builds up the fire. Wiping the worst of the snow (and, now, water) from inside Charles's boots, she lays them on their side, remembering from when she was young that facing the open ends to the fire to catch the heat will dry them by morning.

In the kitchen, Elsie gets the kettle on and opens the basket. She'd expected an apple tart and an extra bottle of cider from the cook, but she's quite shocked when she pulls out a small bottle of good brandy, to which a small note bearing lovely wishes is attached.

"You never cease to amaze, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie mumbles. "We can certainly use this tonight."

She rubs her hands together as she waits for the kettle to boil, and it's not long before she hears the door open, close, and the slide of the bolt.

"All right then, Charlie?"

"Just fine," he calls back, and just as he's removing his coat and hanging it, the water is ready and Elsie pours them each a cup of tea.

"This'll be the precursor to Mrs. Patmore's gift," Elsie explains, nodding toward the brandy on the counter.

Charles moves past her where she stands in the doorway and picks up the bottle, holding it out from his face a bit so as to read it.

"That's rather dear, isn't it?"

"That's what I thought. I appreciate it, though." She gives him a wry look. "These old bones aren't meant for lying about in the snow, you know."

"Oh, you can afford to live a little, Elsie."

She gives him an incredulous look when she hears the sound of her own words thrown back in her face, and he laughs.

They cuddle up on the couch with their plates and their tea, Charles placing the brandy on the table for when they're finished. "We've nowhere else to be tonight," he explains, "and besides, it's Christmas."

"It is."

They eat in silence, enjoying the lights on the tree and how their glow bounces off the window panes and the snow that's gathered in the corners of the glass.

The wood crackles in the fire, and Elsie rests her head on her husband's shoulder.

"I need to tell you something - about Christmas, in 1902," Charles says suddenly. His voice is calm, steady, and it warms her more than any tea or brandy.

Elsie thinks back, trying to remember. "What about it?"

"It was my other favorite Christmas," he says by way of explanation. "The other half of the answer to your question from last night."

"Ohh," she breathes. "Go on, then." She scrunches up her forehead, thinking, then adds, "I knew you for that one."

He leans forward and sets his empty teacup on the coffee table, then turns back to her, reaching up and brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek and finding it still chilled from the snowy air.

"Snow angels," he whispers, and he leans forward and touches his lips to hers, deepening the kiss and feeling her gasp in his own mouth when she realizes what he means - when she _remembers._

She breaks away.

"Charlie, did you- Were you there? Did you see? But you couldn't have. I'd have spotted you, I think."

"I was in the library," he explains. "I looked out the window and saw you. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what to think."

"No, I imagine not!" Elsie laughs. "Two maids frolicking about in the snow, throwing snowballs and having a grand old time with the dog."

"But then you turned. I couldn't tell who you were at first when you were lying in the snow and playing about, but then you turned and you looked up at the library window - or near enough, anyhow, that it felt like you were looking right at me." He pauses, lowering his voice meaningfully. "I think my heart stopped that day."

"Oh, Charlie. Is that why you started speaking to me? The new butler with the deep voice who never gave any of the maids the time of day up until that point." She raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't even deny it; those were Mrs. Williams's words, not mine."

"I won't. You're absolutely right." He looks into her deep blue eyes. "I didn't know then that I'd end up loving you, but in that brief moment, I felt ... something." He shrugs. "It was the strangest feeling I'd had in a long, long time. And as the days went on from there, I finally felt that I had someone I could talk to in the house - a downstairs person, I mean. And all because of the snow."

"And here I always assumed your stoicism and stern demeanor were part and parcel of being the butler. You were in charge, so it made sense that you didn't speak much to the others. You had no equal, really, not then."

He smirks. "But once _you_ were the housekeeper, I did?"

Elsie swats his knee. "You did and you know it."

"Poor Mrs. Williams," he quips.

"Oh, Charlie." She gets up with a soft groan and opens the brandy, pouring each of them a healthy bit in their teacups. "She was old enough to have been your mother."

She hands him a teacup and tells him there's no point getting the proper snifters when they have the warm cups already, and for once Charles doesn't balk at doing something improperly.

She sits back down and he reaches his arm around her, pulling her close. He remembers the package that he tucked away in the closet earlier, but he's loath to get up now and disturb her. It can wait until tomorrow.

From atop the tree, the angel seems to twinkle.

**_TBC_**

**Review replies are working again and hopefully I've managed to reply to everyone who reviews with an account; if not, please accept my humble and public thanks here. xxx**


	20. Tinsel

_**24th of December**_

Perhaps it is its own version of a Christmas miracle, but Elsie sleeps later than usual on Christmas Eve morning. She's not to be to work until ten due to the long evening ahead of them with the family's celebration and then midnight mass, and so Charles gets up before her once again and heads down to put the kettle on. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he remembers the small box he tucked up in the storage closet and retrieves it, setting it on the dining table on his way into the kitchen. Elsie should be up soon, he hopes, and it will be a sweet surprise.

He puts on water for tea and some sliced bread goes into the toaster, which reminds him to tell Elsie that the bread is nearly gone and they'll either want to make a couple of loaves themselves or pick some up in the village or from Mrs. Patmore. They've been slicing it all right away and storing it differently, which has enabled Charles to manage a decent breakfast even on the days when his hands shake too much to use the bread knife safely.

While the bread is toasting, he looks around the kitchen, feeling as though something is missing. The feeling makes no sense because this morning is really no different than any _other _morning.

Except it is, he realizes. With what he knows is at least two minutes before he needs to pull the toast out (over a year of marriage behind him, but he managed to master the toast-making only six weeks ago), he heads into the living room and turns on the wireless, tuning the knob until he lands on a station coming in clearly and smiling as the first chords of _Adeste Fideles_ come through the speaker. He adjusts the volume a bit and returns to the kitchen. The toast is ready just as the water for his tea boils. Once well set with food and drink, he takes his seat and hears his wife's footsteps descending the stairs.

"Happy Christmas Eve." She greets him with a kiss.

"Happy Christmas Eve. You slept well."

Elsie stretches, which allows her husband to appreciate the look of her body as her night gown and robe slide over it a bit. She moves to get herself a cup for tea, but Charles waves her into a seat and gets up himself to retrieve it ... and that's when she spots the box.

"What's this?"

"Open it," he replies with a smile. He pours the tea with two hands carefully holding the pot. It splashes out a bit and he wipes it up, well past the days when the mess would shame him. Elsie has shown time and time again to have patience with and acceptance of all his shortcomings - another thing which, in Charles's mind, 'passeth all understanding.'

Elsie looks at the mailing label on the package, but the name of the company and return address are smudged, and the postmark gives no clue as to what might be inside.

"It's light," she remarks, turning it in her hands and smirking at him. "Are you sure there's something inside?"

"Very funny," he says, chuckling. "Although ... Perhaps next year an empty box will be the way to go."

"Oh, get away with you." She takes a tentative sip of her tea, then another. "I'll need a small knife, I think."

Charles provides her with one, then sits down and watches as she opens the package.

"I'd have done that part yesterday morning," he confides quietly, "except the trembling worsened by the time I returned from the post office, and then I needed to get up to the house."

"It's no bother," she says, pulling the last of the brown paper off. "It is a gift, after all; one _should _be required to unwrap it." She pries open the shipping box only to find a white, much slighter box inside, one which bears no markings. Curious, she lifts it out and sets it on the table.

"It won't bite," he says softly.

Elsie looks at him. "Should I know what this is? It seems familiar, but I'm not sure why."

Charles smiles at her. "Perhaps, if you think back."

Shaking her head, completely mystified and unable to come up with it, she gives up and lifts the lid. "Oh, _Charlie,_" she whispers, overcome with emotion. Her head snaps up to look at him, then back to the box once again. "You found some! But how ...?"

Resting in the box were a dozen beautiful, thin, shiny pieces of silver tinsel.

"In a catalogue that her Ladyship showed me," is his reply. "The company has nearly stopped making them, but two lucky telephone conversations later and I tracked these down."*

Elsie's jaw drops. "And how, pray tell, did all of that occur?"

Charles smiles. "You mentioned it when we were first discussing the purchase of the lights for the tree, months ago," he reminds her. "We didn't have it in the local shops, and then I remembered that her Ladyship had some ordered a few years ago for the tree at Downton. In fact, it must've been you who'd ordered it."

Elsie nods, nearly speechless. "A great deal of it, as I recall."

"And so I knew she'd be able to tell me where it came from, and I asked her."

"You asked her," Elsie repeats, astonished. "And when was this?"

"After church a few weeks ago," he says simply. "It was right when Christmas decorations began appearing in the shops again, so it's been quite a while now. Anyhow, I waited for a moment when you were busy catching up with Dr. Clarkson. Her Ladyship left a note for me with Mr. Barrow a few days later with the name of the catalogue in which she'd seen the advertisement."

Elsie reaches into the box and pulls out a few of the strands. They shine so brilliantly in her hands, and she knows already that the tinsel is of a very high quality.

_Of course, _she thinks. _Her Ladyship wouldn't have purchased anything else._

"Charlie?"

But he sees the question coming a mile away. "I refuse to tell you what it cost, but I can assure you that it wasn't out of the realm of reason." He reaches for her free hand and kisses the back of it. "You deserve to have something beautiful now and again, Elsie," he says quietly. "And after all, it is Christmas."

"It is at that," she says, and the pride and happiness in his eyes at having pulled off such a surprise quell any remaining protest she might have had; after all, she knows all too well that the magic of Christmas is often most easily found in the giving of a meaningful gift and the surprise in someone's eyes when it is opened. "Thank you, Charlie. This was so very thoughtful."

He stands back and watches her as she puts the first few strands on the branches of their tree.

"You should put some up," she encourages, but he shakes his head.

"No. I'd rather watch you, if I'm honest." He holds his hand out, which is still trembling terribly. "I will polish it, though, when it needs doing. That can be my contribution."

Her first thought is that she can manage it herself, but the words never make it to her throat. He still struggles with his forced retirement nearly a year later and knows there's value in finding ways to be useful instead of feeling redundant.

"I'll hold you to that," she replies.

Charles peers out the window and sees the remnants of the angel in the snow.

"The sun is out today," he says. "I hope that doesn't melt."

Elsie peeks around him, resting her hand on his hip as she does so.

"Oh, Charlie. It can't stay forever." She smiles up at him and rests her hand on his cheek, scratching her fingernails against the stubble of his beard. "You're just like Becky, you know. Sometimes. With things like this." She chuckles. _"Sentimental_ things."

"Stop."

Laughing, she turns back to the tree and hangs the rest of the beautiful tinsel on the branches.

* * *

***Tinsel used to be made from actual silver, which was hammered and cut into thin strips. But due to the necessity of polishing it (and soot from the candles which also adorned Christmas trees around the turn of the century), manufacturers eventually switched to a tin and lead composite. No iteration of Charles Carson that exists in my mind would ever choose a product made of lead over one made of silver, and so here we are.**

**_Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews! I truly appreciate each and every one. X_**


	21. Unwrap

_**24th of December**_

"Charlie?"

He watches as she hangs the last piece of tinsel, appreciating how she spaces them all perfectly so that each bit of the tree glistens just a little bit more.

"Hm?"

Elsie bends to plug in the lights on the tree and then backs away a bit to check her work, giving a bit of a nod of approval at the overall appearance. She turns to him and shoots him a look that he finds quite endearing.

"Do you mind? It is Christmas Eve, and I know it's not nighttime yet, but we'll be gone until morning."

He shakes his head slowly, a soft look of love on his face. "I don't mind," he replies quietly. "Would you like to open your gift?"

Elsie furrows her brow. "I already have, haven't I?" She waves at the tree, perplexed, but then her eyes spot a small box below the tree, tucked just far enough behind the horse for young Johnny that she hadn't noticed it before. "Where did that come from?"

"I'll actually answer that, because it's a rather interesting story and series of events." He points to it, indicating that she should retrieve it. "As you said, we won't be home this evening."

"I need to eat first," she says, ever practical - and quite hungry, being used to rising two hours earlier and already being full of a light breakfast by this point in the day. Ducking into the kitchen, she returns with a small tin.

"A wholesome choice," he teases, reaching for one of the gingerbread biscuits. "But appropriate, I think."

"You would." She kisses his cheek and sets her biscuit on his plate, then fetches the small box and returns to her seat by his side. Their legs are touching, and she reaches over and squeezes his knee and leans into him a bit, grateful that the settee is rather small for the two of them.

"I feel rather spoilt," she confides quietly. "Hot tea upon waking, Christmas music in the cottage, new lights and tinsel on the tree ..."

"We're making new traditions," he summarizes, resting his arm across the back of the settee just over her shoulders. "And I'd say that after two lifetimes of being hard-working people who've had very little of our own, we deserve a bit of spoiling."

"I hope you feel the same when you see your gift," Elsie replies quietly.

He hears apprehension in her voice and is desperate to quell it, to not allow anything whatsoever to ruin the peaceful, sweet atmosphere in which he now sits.

"I'm sure it'll be wonderful," he reassures. "Now - unwrap that. Please."

She's so curious as to what can be in the beautifully wrapped box. And who wrapped it remains a mystery as well, for she's certain it wasn't her husband. The paper is a muted cream color with printed holly leaves and berries. The ribbon is securely tied and forms a neat bow on the top, and its color is red like the berries with a bit of golden thread on the edging.

She pulls one end and the entire length slides off with ease. With a sweet look at Charlie, she slides her fingertip under the paper and pulls it off, revealing a hinged box. It's the wrong shape to hold any type of jewelry, but it's lovely; in and of itself, it would make a beautiful gift. She slowly lifts the lid.

Charles watches her face as she opens the box. He wishes he could capture every second, every change in her expression, every bit of the gasp as she spies what lies inside.

"Charlie ... Ohhhh," she breathes, trailing her fingertip over the one that lies on top. "Where in the world did you find these?"

"Do you like them?"

She turns to him and he sees her eyes full of emotion. "They are exquisite," she breathes, and a tear slides down her face. She doesn't even seem to notice.

"Oh, no," he murmurs, brushing his hand over her cheek. "We'll have none of that."

Inside the box rests a set of two hand-carved hairpins. At first glance they appear to be tortoise-shell, but upon closer examination she sees that they're made of burled wood. She lifts one out, examining it more closely, and just turns and stares at her husband, speechless.

"They're the color of your hair," he explains quietly. "That's what drew me to them. I wanted something unique, functional but not _just _functional - although that wouldn't bad necessarily, but I'd already gotten you the tinsel, which is also functional and also not useful all year, so this needed to be ..." He stops, breathes, realizes he's rambling. "Beautiful," he finishes. "Like my wife."

"Charlie," she whispers, her hand now over her heart. She leans in and kisses him tenderly. "How in the world did I ever end up with someone as completely romantic as you?" A laugh bubbles up from within her. "When did you _become _this romantic?"

He pulls her closer, kissing her again, deeply. "Don't ever tell," he whispers back. "Not that anyone would believe you anyhow."

"You said there was a story to go along with the gift?"

Elsie sets the box on the coffee table and cuddles up to her husband, and the sound of his voice fills the room as he spins the tale involving a suggestion from Mr. Mason, a charming, tucked-away shop, and the shop's seemingly magical owner. The sun begins to shine through the window, the lights are on the tree, and there's a small fire in the hearth.

In that moment, Elsie knows without a doubt, her life is positively, beautifully perfect.

"Your gift isn't here," she says after a while. "I'm sure I don't need to explain that; it's clearly not anywhere under the tree."

"Well, now I'm curious, I'll admit. But I can be patient."

"You have proven that in the past, dear. Anyhow, it's at the Abbey."

"Do I get to open it this evening, then?"

She leans back and turns to him, her lip beneath her teeth. "Are you excited, Mr. Carson? For your Christmas surprise?"

"Well," he replies, trying not to sound impatient, "it is Christmas, I suppose. I'm curious, certainly."

She continues to stare at him, amused.

"Fine! I'm excited. I cannot wait to see what you came up with, and I'm completely baffled as to why it's not here."

"Oh, that's easy," she says. "I couldn't carry it all the way here by myself, so I had it delivered there because I knew we'd be there all day and quite likely exhausted by the time we're back from midnight mass."

"My wife. Ever the planner."

"Plotter," she counters with a smile.

He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

"Elf," he whispers.

Elsie, for once, doesn't correct him.

* * *

**Thanks again for all of your steady reviews, particularly to the guests to whom I cannot reply individually (including C4E, John, and suzie, whose names pop up in that little review field). I'm so happy for each and every one. This story is definitely full of romantic overtures by Charlie, but in the next chapter, he gets to UNWRAP his gift from Elsie. Whatever could it be? xxx**


	22. Vixen

_**24th of December**_

At Charles's encouragement, Elsie enjoys a long, luxurious bath before dressing for work. He uses the time to clean up the kitchen a bit, leaving their plates and cups on the rack to drip dry. Given that he'll be accompanying her today, Charles then stocks the small wood stove in the back of the kitchen so that it'll burn down slowly while they're gone. One of the hall boys will run down this evening and reload it for them, too, which is one of the many advantages of living in a cottage on the estate. Confident that it'll burn steadily but slowly until then, he heads upstairs to get ready.

When Elsie exits the bathroom, Charles makes his way in - but not before cornering her in the hallway and bestowing several kisses to her mouth, neck, and shoulder.

"Your skin is very warm," he murmurs against it, and she has to push him away in order to ensure they don't arrive any later than the ten o'clock time she was already generously given. She does so with a laugh, though, and a small thought for why it took months into their marriage for them to slip into _that sort of thing_ with any type of ease. On the one hand, she wishes it hadn't taken so long, but on the other, Elsie supposes they both appreciate it all the more now.

He returns and dresses quickly before sitting on the bed to watch as she plaits her hair - always the last bit of transformation back from 'Elsie' to 'Mrs. Hughes'. It's a mystery to him how she can do it so quickly, despite his knowledge that it comes from years of practice. He's tried following the movements of her fingers so many times but just ends up getting lost.

Today, though, she styles it a bit differently in order to highlight the beautiful pins. Each goes in securely on the sides of a tightly braided bun, with the two picks holding each in place, the carving serving as a subtle adornment that peeks out from the arrangement.

"There," she says, satisfied. "How do they look?"

"Like they were made for you," is his reply.

She takes up the hand mirror and turns this way and that to catch the reflection, admiring the look of them in her hair.

"You're right," she declares, setting down the mirror and turning to him. "Thank you again, Charlie."

"You're more than welcome."

He helps her on with her coat, hides the key inside of the wreath on the door so that John Bates can retrieve the horse in a couple of hours, and holds out his hand.

She takes it gratefully and gives him a little squeeze.

* * *

The servants' hall is alive with activity when they arrive. Thomas Barrow gives Charles a friendly nod on his way by, which Charles returns in kind. Things are not always smooth between the two men, but it's coming along better than either of them expected at the outset of Charles's forced retirement.

"You go on ahead," Charles murmurs to Elsie, nodding to where the John Bates is sitting at the far corner of the table. "I'll catch him while Anna's occupied upstairs."

Elsie takes his coat with her and goes to her sitting room; she's not there twenty minutes when there's a soft knock at the door.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Joseph Molesley's whisper comes through the crack in the door and Elsie rushes to open it and usher the man inside before closing the door again rather quickly. She eyes the basket in his hands and looks up at his face.

"No trouble, then?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Hughes," he replies quietly, and he slides the top of the basket open to reveal a black kitten inside. She's tiny and her fur is sleek and short, and Elsie runs a finger over her soft head and smiles at the white bits of her tail, chest, and nose. The kitten yawns and curls up into a ball, promptly falling fast asleep.

"I fed her this morning," he says, "and we played for quite a bit, too. She should sleep for a good couple of hours off and on, and the basket is plenty big enough for her for the time being." He tips his head towards the servants' dining area. "I heard Mr. Carson in there talking with Mr. Barrow, and I think they're heading down to the wine cellar in a moment."

"Good. That'll keep him occupied for at least half an hour and give me time to dress up this basket a bit with a bow." She smiles gratefully at him. "Thank you so much, Mr. Molesley."

"I still can't imagine it; Mr. Carson - with a _cat_!" He chuckles and shakes his head. "They shed and they nibble. They're not very proper, are they?"

"Well," Elsie reasons, "they do fairly well on their own, unlike a dog, and we're often away from the cottage for long hours. Besides, cats hunt mice, which will possibly be Mr. Carson's favorite thing about this gift."

"Perhaps." Joseph peers underneath the lid of the basket one more time, ensuring that the kitten is slumbering away - and, Elsie thinks, perhaps to say goodbye until he sees her again. "She is practical."

"She is," Elsie agrees, and the kitten starts to purr in her sleep. "And you never know, Mr. Molesley. It might not take her long at all to wrap him around her little paw."

Joseph leaves her with the basket, and Elsie manages to fashion a large bow out of some ribbon she'd tucked away, securing it to the basket with a bit of wire. She tucks the entire thing underneath her desk for the moment in order to focus on some work she needs to get done. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy have everything set for the next few days on their end, and as Elsie goes over the notes the butler has left for her, she checks off a few more things on her own list and then adds two that he'd thought of when she was at home.

It's going on noon when Charlie reappears. Elsie had taken the kitten out once to entertain her and nearly had a heart attack when the kitten decided to hide underneath the table and curl up against the wall. Fortunately, the door never opened in that time, and with a bit of twine and cunning, Elsie managed to lure her out and cuddle her to the point of sleepiness before depositing her back in the basket. If there is any one thing she's grateful of at the moment Charles opens her door, it's that kittens spend a good amount of time _asleep ... _and that her work dress is all black, else he'd have spotted the few stray pieces of fur she hadn't managed to remove from her lap.

"Where on Earth did you get to?" Elsie asks, tipping her head to receive a kiss to her cheek.

"Well," he says, rubbing his hands together to warm them, "Mr. Barrow had some ideas about reorganizing the wine cellar."

"Did he?" Elsie is secretly quite pleased, indeed. She'd asked Mr. Barrow yesterday to keep Charlie occupied so that Mr. Molesley could sneak his Christmas gift into her sitting room unnoticed, but it appears he went above and beyond in that department - and, not atypically, used the opportunity to his own advantage as well.

"He did."

She looks at him over her specs and sets her pen down. "And? You don't seem displeased by the idea. I gather from the time you spent down there that you agreed?"

"I did, surprisingly. The quantities of wine his Lordship and the family are ordering - and consuming, of course - are changing. Consumption in general has dwindled over the past few years, and it wasn't sensible to keep the non-rotating stock where it was located. We cleared some of the back shelves, relocated the portion of the collection that's mine to a place either you or I can access it more easily, and shifted some of the collection of reds to a different area altogether."

Elsie eyes his clothing. "You're remarkably clean, given all that!"

"Well, I can't bear to be untidy. You know that."

Elsie's foot tingles where it rests gently against the basket, and she hopes that Charlie - in his quest to be eternally tidy - really _won't _mind a tiny bit of cat fur on his chest now and again. She knows he seems quite big and booming to the rest of the world, but there's a softness to him both inside and out that she's come to adore.

And she suspects that there's a tiny, empty spot in his soft heart that a little kitten just might be able to fill.

"Charlie, sit down," she instructs. "I think it's time to give you your Christmas gift."

He does so, and he watches as she gets up and closes the door more tightly, curious.

She makes her way back to him and stands before him, placing her hands gently on each side of his face and tilting his head back so that he's looking into her eyes.

"Elsie?" His brow furrows, but his eyes are alight with ... something.

"No," she coos, chuckling, "that's _not _what I had in mind." She kisses him on the forehead. "I'd have _locked_ the door for that, I think," she adds with a wink.

"You've been quite the vixen lately," he reminds her. "_Not_ that I'm complaining. But I am intrigued. I don't see a gift anywhere, so naturally I ... wondered."

She rolls her eyes. "Naturally you _hoped, _you mean. No, your gift _is_ here. And I think it's ready for you."

Charles watches as his wife moves away from him, wondering at her odd choice of words. She removes a basket from beneath her desk, and suddenly he knows precisely what his gift is.

"You didn't."

"You don't know what it is," she volleys, setting the basket on the small table by the chair.

"I have an idea."

He spies a sliver of worry on her face and is quick to dispel it.

"I'm not cross," he assures her, his hands lifted as if to wave off the concern. "Quite the contrary. If the contents of this basket are what I suspect, I think it could be an exciting new chapter for us."

"Go on, then." She motions to the basket as she sits across from him.

Charles pushes the bow aside and lifts the lid, and his eyes light up with sheer, pure joy when he spies the small kitten.

"You _did,_" he breathes, and he smiles brightly at his wife. "Elsie, this is ... _perfect._"

She returns his smile and breathes a sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure," she admits. "But we do have a mouse problem at the cottage, and when Mr. Molesley mentioned getting a cat, I was intrigued. And then one of his students at the schoolhouse mentioned needing a home for some kittens that his own cat had given birth to, and there we were." She reaches in and scratches the kitten's ears. "She was old enough to leave the mother yesterday, so the timing couldn't have been better."

"She's tiny." He reaches in the basket and touches her back. "And soft. I mean, I know cats are soft, but she seems exceedingly soft."

"She was the runt of the litter, but Mr. Molesley assures me she has some spunk. She was playing with him last night and again this morning, as he wanted her to be able to sleep a bit in order for this entire gifting to work out, and I had her out earlier as well. There's a lot of spunk in this one."

Charles looks at her. "I love her." And then a thought occurs to him. "Are you sure it's a girl?"

"Positive. She'll need a name, too, but that's on you. She'll be your companion, not mine."

His face softens as he realizes that, of course, Elsie would have another motive for getting him a kitten.

"I wasn't so lonely as to be miserable," he tells her gently.

"No," she agrees. "But now you'll not be lonely at all. She'll take care of things at the cottage when we're away, but I have a feeling the two of you will be fast friends as you bond whilst I'm away at work."

"Which won't be for much longer," he reminds her, and she acquiesces with a nod.

"We hope not," she allows. "Although she'll be an adult cat by then, for sure. Now, I'll let you come up with a name and get to know her. And do watch the claws and teeth, Charlie. They're quite sharp on the wee ones."

"Do you think I can take her out?" The kitten is waking, after all, and he very much wants to hold her.

"Of course. Best get her used to your smell," she says. "And let her have her cuddle time on your chest when she can, because I can assure you that - cute or no - I won't be getting displaced from that spot when we're in bed."

A sly look crosses his face. "I could call her Vixen," he suggests.

"Oh, Charlie," she whispers, mortified. "You wouldn't dare."

But he just raises his eyebrows and smirks.

"Don't. _Please._"

Charles laughs lowly. "I won't," he replies. "Because we'd have to continually explain it, and I doubt my responsible housekeeper of a wife would appreciate that."

"Nor would you," she reminds him. "Ever the pinnacle of propriety."

He looks back at the kitten. "Her eyes are such an odd shade, somewhere caught between green and gold. She's such a marvel."

"That she is," Elsie says softly. "Look at us, Charlie. Parents."

She meets his gaze and he smiles brilliantly. "Just so."

Charles lifts the small kitten from the box. "She nearly fits in the palms of my hands," he marvels.

"That won't last," Elsie reminds him. She wants to add something else about how fast they grow, but the words fizzle out when she sees Charlie lift the kitten to his face and give her a bit of a nuzzle; the kitten, in turn, rubs her head on his chin.

"That's me, put in second place," she mumbles with a laugh.

"You know that's not true," he says. "But look at her, Elsie. She's absolutely marvelous."

Elsie crosses the room again and lays her hand on her husband's arm, squeezing it as she reaches around him to pet the kitten again. "It took you much less time to fall in love with _her,_" she teases.

"Indeed."

"We're a proper family now, though, aren't we?" She drops a kiss to the top of Charlie's head, and he leans back to catch a second one on the mouth, humming against her lips.

"That we are, Mrs. Carson."

The kitten rubs her head on Charlie's wrist, yawns, and curls back up in his hands ... and promptly begins to chew on the cuff of his shirt.

"No," he says firmly, tapping her on the nose with his finger, but she picks up the task again about three seconds later.

Elsie gives a soft laugh. "And so it begins. _Parenting._"

But Charlie just shifts the kitten's position so her face is pointed elsewhere, then leans down and kisses it on the head.

"That's alright," he replies. "We'll get there in the end, won't we?"

Elsie she shakes her head, knowing full well that he wasn't addressing _her_ at all. With a smile, she squeezes her husband's arm once more and returns to her desk, hopeful to clear it of all tasks before mid-afternoon.

_**TBC**_

* * *

**A/N: Not a bicycle! Sorry, C4E. And not a new idea for me, either, but hey - sometimes a guy needs a pet, and a dog really is not feasible with the lifestyle they lead right now. I nearly died when I read Hogwarts Duo's kitten chapter in "A Very Chelsie Christmas." (Are you reading that, by the way? You really should be reading that.) However, since this was a) already written and b) a black kitten instead of a white one, it stayed. It was one of two coincidences we had, but given that she's only just published the chapter with the other one, I don't want to mention it now and spoil it.**

**So ... Charlie's kitten needs a name. Any takers? (I have had this story written since Nov 29 and still do not have a name for this cat. No joke - I've got to add one in.)**

**Blessings to all for finding a bit of winter solstice peace in these last few days leading up to Christmas and Hanukkah. xx**

**CSotA**


	23. Wreath

_**24th of December**_

"_Christ has been born among us ..."_

The Reverend Travis's words are clear and comforting in the stillness of the church. Elsie's fingers are laced through Charlie's and she feels a sense of completion, of peace, and the knowledge that they are surrounded by love. It isn't lost on either her or her husband that it's been nearly a full turn of the wheel since his forced retirement, yet neither of them can quite believe how far they've come in that year.

People stand and voices rise, singing the familiar songs that are as much a part of her life now as the other, older traditions had been when she was very small, practices from her great-grandmother, decidedly pagan ones that have no place in St. Michael's and All Angels. But last year she introduced Charlie to the practice of lighting the Yule log and shared with him (in a quiet voice and with no small amount of apprehension given his own steadfast, lifelong religion) a bit of her childhood. To her surprise, he'd not only listened with wide-eyed fascination but helped her continue the traditions.

"_What is that?" Charles asked, mystified by the small piece of wood in her hand._

"_It's the remains of last year's log," she explained carefully. "It'll be used to light the new one."_

"_You've kept it all year?"_

"_Yes, Charlie. That's how it's done."_

"_And you managed to have a Yule log every year since you were a child? How is that possible?"_

_She smiled. "The Yule log is given, so for all the years I was in service, I improvised by selecting one of the pieces of wood that was laid out in the fireplace in my room. I couldn't very well ask for one, so that had to do."_

"_And no one wondered why you saved a piece?"_

"_Well, no one knew ... until now."_

They sit again, listening to the prayers, reciting responses when required. Elsie's eyes scan the front of the church while the back of her mind is still reminiscing, thinking of the quiet that followed her explanation when Charlie had come upon her fetching the small piece of wood from a box in her wardrobe. Her heart swells when her memories bring her to last Christmas Eve, to the boyish look of pride on his face when she spotted the Yule log he'd laid in their fireplace before they left for church. They'd not lit it then, stretching tradition just a bit so as not to leave it burning whilst they were away.

"_Will that do?" His face was uncertain, but he had surprised her and knew it, and his pride was evident._

"_It's perfect, Charlie." It was all she was able to utter, so surprised and touched was she by his thoughtful attentiveness to this one detail that is such an integral part of her personal history._

"Elsie?"

His voice is a murmur in her ear, pulling her fully back to the here and now. She shakes her head but gives him a reassuring smile and it seems to placate him.

Near the altar, the Advent wreath is laid out. The flame from the Christ candle burns bright and true and full of promise. This tradition touches her heart too, for even with the old ways still a part of her, Elsie's faith in this place, this church, and these traditions and prayers is equally powerful. It ties her to Charles in a fundamental way and is something they share, a part of the mutual respect they've crafted over the course of decades. She hears the choir as they lead the congregation in song, sees bright faces and a bit of tiredness on the parts of some in attendance.

Her gaze falls on the Dowager, the woman's hair shimmering in the church's candlelight, and Elsie knows that tonight she'll send out an extra wish for the woman, for a painless passing of her spirit when she leaves this world for the next, which Elsie is certain will be before they all see another Christmas. There's a small, sharp pain in her heart when that thought hits her fully, for she knows the grief Charles will experience then will bring him to his knees.

_Yes. _She'll send an extra prayer of hope for Lady Violet, and one for Charlie, too.

There's a bit of loud commotion as everyone rises at the end of the service. People seeking one another out, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and making their way by.

They linger in the back, since Elsie knows her husband wants to see the family one more time before they head home. They enjoyed such a lovely time earlier, celebrating as staff but also, in some small way, as true guests - particularly of Tom and Sybbie Branson. Charles surprised each of the children with a small toy and a peppermint, all of which he'd kept a secret from his wife until that very morning. The wine flowed freely, the food was excellent as always, and despite being in full housekeeper mode and keeping a dutiful eye on the entire thing, Elsie had been able to relax a bit and feel her husband's hand at the small of her back more than once. That and the absence of his livery contributed to a sense of belonging in a new way, and Elsie had the thought that if this happened to be _her _last Christmas as a part of Downton as well, it was the loveliest way to celebrate it.

Elsie feels Charlie's hand at her elbow and turns to see Lord Grantham's eldest daughter.

"Carson, I'll have you know that George fell asleep with that small wooden horse clutched in his hand." Mary's voice, so often clipped and cool, is full of affection.

"I'm very glad he likes it, Milady."

Elsie smiles, silent. She and Lady Mary Talbot came to some sort of mutual understanding during the royal visit, but neither of them have ever felt the need to fill empty space with meaningless chatter. They spoke at the family's party earlier - at great length, considering - and best wishes have already been given and received.

After a bit more conversation and some greetings exchanged with a few of the village folk, it's nearly time to go home. Elsie can't wait to be off her feet and cuddled up to her husband, and from the way he's looking at her from where he stands talking to Lord Grantham, she thinks he may be having similar thoughts to hers.

Tom Branson offers them a ride back to the cottage, which Charles readily accepts. It puts them in the warmth of their home sooner and, immediately after the shedding of coats, hats, scarves, and gloves, Elsie finds herself wrapped in her husband's arms.

His palm lands on her face and she can feel his fingertips in her hair. They're warm, which surprises her, but his lips are a bit cold when they meet hers. He lingers and hums against her mouth, then deepens the kiss slowly. Elsie grasps at his sleeve to steady herself, tilting her head slightly and opening her mouth a bit to him. He has her backed against the wall by the front door, and there's something almost illicit about it that thrills her.

"I love you," he whispers when they part. "Happy two years."

She smiles softly at him. "Your sense of romance knows no bounds, Charlie."

"Would you still marry me, if I asked you today?" He holds up his hand, which is trembling slightly, likely from fatigue. "If you'd known I would end up like this?"

"Is that what's been on your mind these last few weeks, love, what's been worrying you so?"

To his credit, he does not look away, allowing her to see the sadness in his eyes, and he nods minutely. "I feel that Christmastime is supposed to be so wondrous, and it _is _and I _do _feel that, but it's also such a reminder of how things change, of how _I _am changing. It's so evident now, and I can't help but feel that I've wasted so much time ..."

"Oh, Charlie." She had suspected this was at the heart of his melancholy, and she wished she knew how to fully dispel it. They're both aging, they feel it, and over the past year his infirmity has worsened a bit, it's true. But they've also found ways to manage with it, small changes to their lifestyle that haven't made a huge difference in how things happen: the sliced bread, larger buttons, and the safety razor she's just ordered through the mail that she's not told him about yet. He is participating in village life more, doing things which don't require as fine a hand as being the butler did.

She takes his hand and places the softest of kisses to his palm, keeping her gaze steadily focused on his as she does so.

"I would marry you today, tomorrow, and every day after, Mr. Carson," she whispers. "Let's get upstairs."

He takes her hand and leads the way, taking the bathroom first as she fetches the small bit of wood to light the log he's laid in the hearth. It catches quickly, crackling once it gets going. Elsie hears the door creak behind her and Charlie's footsteps on the cold floor.

"You've done well, Charlie," she praises him, pointing at the log from where she's crouched down before it. "Time to make our wishes."

He holds his hand out to help her up and wraps his arms around her as they stand together, watching the fire and casting silent wishes for hope and peace into the warmth.

"I'll brush your hair," he murmurs in her ear, and she nods; it's a declaration, but also a request.

"Just let me change."

When she returns, he's sitting against the headboard with the pillows piled behind him and room for her to sit between his legs - which she does upon climbing into the bed.

"Can you hand me a pillow?"

He passes her a fat one, which she hugs to herself for a bit of support before leaning forward on it.

"My back is so sore. I'm glad we've been discussing my retirement. I'm not sure I have another Christmas season at that house in me."

He sees that she's already pulled the wooden pins out, probably put them somewhere very safe, but she's left him the smaller ones. He removes each one with care, setting them on his nightstand as they talk.

The Dowager's situation lies unspoken between them, and Elsie won't be the one to bring it up.

"She looked very well tonight," Charles says as he takes out the last of the pins. He fluffs Elsie's hair a bit and runs his fingers through it, searching for large tangles as he undoes the braiding, then rubs her scalp with his fingertips.

"She did," Elsie agrees, and she moans softly as he massages her temples. "Ohhh, that feels wonderful, Charlie."

He breathes deeply, inhaling the faint lavender scent of her hair. "It'll be her last Christmas. I just can't wrap my head around it."

Elsie hears the hitch in his voice, but she knows her husband well and does not turn around. Sometimes he just needs a bit of time and space, even in the sanctuary of their bedroom.

"She wants me to call on her," he says a moment later. He's picked up the brush and started on the ends of her hair, working his way up and running his fingers through it every so often. It's unnecessary, but the feel of her hair in his fingers soothes him - and it pleases Elsie, too.

"When?"

"'Beginning next week'," he replies. "That's all she said."

"So ... repeatedly?"

"It would appear so. Truth be told, I'm not sure how I feel about that."

Elsie ponders the thought for a moment.

"Perhaps she's lonely, Charlie. So often the harbinger of death makes family and friends keep their distance instead of increasing the frequency of their visits, despite how little sense that seems to make. And you truly understand her in a way that many people do not."

"We have similar priorities, I think," Charles says.

"And a similar outlook on the world and how it's changing, too."

He continues to run the brush through her hair a few more times, then sets it aside - its job complete - and wraps his arms around his wife, who leans into his body. She feels his lips on her head and can tell he's stifling a yawn.

"I'll miss her," he whispers sadly.

Elsie pats his arm. "I know. And I think she knows that, too. Perhaps she's also trying to give you a little more time."

Charles nods, his temple rubbing against his wife's.

"Let's get some sleep, Charlie. Tomorrow is a big day, too."

They rearrange themselves and Charles switches off the light. Elsie feels the soft _thump_ as Eve jumps up on the bed, planting herself firmly by Charles's feet, and she smiles when he gently lifts her back off and places her into her basket and softly tells her to go to sleep.

_Eve,_ Elsie thinks. For Christmas Eve, when she joined their family, and as Charlie* so eloquently put it, because it's the eve of a new phase in their lives, being responsible not only for the care of one another but for this small, beautiful creature as well.

Elsie tucks herself into her husband's side and lays her ear over his heart, letting its beat lull her to sleep.

**_TBC_**

* * *

**A/N: Please leave a wee review and let me know what you think! **

***and Hogwarts Duo, who came up with the name Eve. I did consider Violet, which was also suggested and which had been my original idea, but I wasn't sure Charlie could bear it. **

**BIG hugs to nanniships for helping answer some questions I had about Anglican holiday observances, the history of the Advent wreath and its use in the early 20th century in England, general amazing discussion about religion (tongue-in-cheek and not), and the likelihood of a young Elsie vs The Village Kirk in Argyll. :) xx**


	24. Xylophone

_**25th of December**_

Christmas Day dawns with flecks of snow blowing through the morning light. Elsie rises and prepares a quick breakfast for herself and Charlie, and with a quick kiss and a promise to see him later on, she's out the door in a hurry. The brisk air does her good, and by the time she arrives, she's wide awake.

Being wide awake is a very, _very _good thing, because instead of being in the nursery as he normally is, young Johnny Bates is currently sitting at the servants' table, banging away on a small xylophone.

Banging. Loudly. _Repeatedly._

Elsie ruffles his hair and wishes him a Happy Christmas before managing to escape to her sitting room and hang her things by the fire to dry.

She can still hear the ... music. _It __**is**__ music,_ she reminds herself. Just of a different sort than she's used to.

Mrs. Patmore brings a tea tray and closes the door tightly behind herself.

"Happy Christmas to you, then," she says to Elsie, who returns the sentiment and hands her friend the small gift she'd had tucked away in her desk.

"Can you sit a few minutes and open that?" Elsie asks, waving to the chairs, and the cook nods.

"I can sit in here all day if you promise to keep the door shut," Beryl grumbles. "He's been banging on that thing for twenty straight minutes, and it isn't hasn't even gone eight yet."

"Where's Nanny?"

"Up getting the others dressed after their baths. Anna does Johnny's at night when they get home, and he was wide awake today so he couldn't keep himself occupied upstairs. Oh, that reminds me. You'll be pleased to hear that Anna was blown over by the horse. She'll be in to see you herself soon, I'm sure, but it was all she was talking about at breakfast."

"Oh, that's lovely," Elsie replies. "We were so afraid she sussed it out yesterday when Mr. Bates had an errand to run - to our cottage, of course, but he couldn't tell her that."

"Evidently she did not." Beryl looks at the small box in her hand. "Why am I afraid to open this?"

"It won't bite, I promise you." Elsie hands Beryl a cup of tea, then prepares one for herself. As the steam reaches her nose and warms her face, she remembers the conversation she and Charles had only that morning, and she looks over at her friend. "Go on, then."

Beryl sets the tea aside and slides the red and white twine off of the package. Peeling off the paper, she looks over at the housekeeper, who is watching her with rapt attention. She sets the wrapping aside and lifts the top of the box.

"Oh, my goodness," she breathes, and her head snaps back up. "This is too much, and you know it."

"It is not," Elsie counters. "It's from the both of us." Her argument is a weak one. In Christmases past, Elsie might have gifted her friend a box of soaps or lotion, and Charlie was always good for a bottle of sherry or wine.

But this year is different in so many ways.

Beryl tucks her finger underneath the brooch and lifts it from the box. It's silver, pristinely polished, and it depicts a small wreath of flowers. It's neither too elegant nor overly casual, and she can see instantly that it's something she'll use often.

"Originally, we thought it might be suitable for the wedding," Elsie says.

Beryl nods. "It's a far cry from what I've got tucked away for you two," she replies quietly.

"We'll have none of that, if you please. You've kept our kitchen well stocked with Christmas treats for the past three weeks at least. If Charlie hasn't put half a stone on because of you, I'll be shocked."

"Well, I'm sure there are ways he can work that off," Beryl counters.

Elsie - positively _mortified_ \- laughs loudly, the sound of her voice echoing off the walls of her sitting room.

"I'll have to see if I can find some things for him to do around the house, then." It's a horribly open-ended comment, but fortunately Beryl lets it lie.

"Thank you for this, both of you," she says instead, holding up the brooch. "It's lovelier than anything else I have."

"'A woman deserves something lovely on occasion,'" Elsie recites. "You have Mr. Carson to thank for that sentiment, I'll have you know, though he'd be horrified I've shared that with you." She sips her tea. "So, tell me what else I've missed this Christmas morning?"

"You'd never guess in a million years," Beryl tells her, sitting back and setting the brooch in her lap before retrieving her own cup.

"Has there been a proposal, then?"

Beryl's eyes fly wide open. "How in the _world_ did you know that?"

Elsie glances to be sure her door is still closed before lowering her voice to answer. "Because he came to seek help from my husband."

"He did not."

"I can assure you, he did." Elsie's brow furrows. "Do you know, Mr. Molesley said that he doesn't feel he has any true friends, and that's why he ended up coming to see Charlie. He looks up to him, I think."

"Well, don't they all, really?" Beryl nods in the general direction of the butler's pantry. "Not like now."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Elsie muses. "Andy certainly has enjoyed a positive relationship with Thomas."

"That's Mr. Barrow to you," Beryl says with a wink and a chuckle, and Elsie rolls her eyes.

"You know what I mean, though. But it made Charlie sad, I think, to hear it. And perhaps it made him think about how he, himself, is perceived at times."

"It's been a hard transition for him, hasn't it? Not being the butler, but also perhaps not feeling useful?"

Elsie considers her friend, who has just put into very few words a sentiment that's taken Charles months to find the words to describe. "That's precisely it, you know. He's at odds and ends at home all day alone when I'm here. He finds things to do in the village, of course, but it's more difficult in the winter." She doesn't add that Charlie's tremor is worse in the cold, or after he's had a bit less sleep due to keeping his wife warm in their bed. She and the cook are close, but not every secret that Charlie has needs to be shared.

"Well, perhaps it's time for you to consider joining him."

It's a quiet statement, a thought that Elsie lets it sit between them for a moment before she reaches for it gently and sends it back.

"I am, actually. Likely within the next year." She looks pointedly at Beryl. "Absolutely no one else knows that besides myself, Charlie, and Anna - and Anna only found out because she asked me specifically about it. But I've not made any firm decisions nor done any solid planning, and I certainly haven't addressed it with Lady Grantham."

"But it's in the cards," Beryl says, nodding.

"We did plan to tell you soon," Elsie says, but Beryl just waves off the concern.

"You've told me now, and I appreciate it," Beryl replies. "It'll be a different place then, that's for sure." Beryl plays with the handle of her cup, runs her fingertip along the edge. "I may just be following you, you know."

It's Elsie's turn to be surprised. "Will you?"

"Well, nothing is certain," Beryl hedges, and Elsie is pleased at the darkening color that appears on her friend's normally pink cheeks. "I mean, once Daisy and Andy are married ..."

"Don't tell me there's _another _wedding to plan!"

"Not yet," Beryl says. "But I think it's coming." Then she laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, heavens, would you listen to me? As if I know anything about these things!"

"You never used to think you didn't know anything about these things," Elsie reminds her. "You were at Charlie and me for over a year!"

"Longer with him," Beryl clarifies. "But need I remind you about Mr. Tufton? The last time I had any ideas that someone was interested in me, it turned into quite the disaster!"

Elsie laughs. "True. But Mr. Mason is different. He's a very kind and unassuming man. And he cares for you. Everyone can see that."

"Daisy says the same. She's the one who put the idea in my head."

_The **hope,** _Elsie thinks. _Not just the idea._

Elsie looks at Beryl, sees that hope in her eyes, and then contemplates the history they share. Years of bickering and leading and leaning on one another, mentoring and supporting and - yes - loving one another. She sends up some hope of her own that when the time comes, they'll both actually be ready to leave the house behind.

The sound of Mr. Barrow's knock at the door puts an end to her musings.

"Come in!" she calls, and he does.

"Happy Christmas to you, Mrs. Hughes," he says. "Might I have a word?"

Beryl gets up and tucks the brooch box into her pocket before quickly piling the tea tray back up.

"I've got to get back anyhow," she says, and then she cocks her head. "Ohhhh, bless him. It's over."

"What's that?" the butler asks.

"Young Master Bates's concerto," Elsie replies wryly. "Xylophone in G ... except it wasn't. Not quite, anyhow."

"Well, he was having his fun. It is Christmas after all, Mrs. Hughes," Thomas says.

Elsie glances at Beryl, who is now just about out the door and behind the butler, and she bites her lip. The cook's face, always so very expressive, expressed precisely what Elsie thought about Thomas making such a statement.

"Mr. Barrow, what can I do for you?"

_**TBC**_


	25. Yorkshire Pudding

_**25th of December**_

Thomas doesn't close the door, but he steps much closer to the housekeeper's desk and keeps his voice low.

"About this evening," he begins, but Elsie jumps right in, hoping to ease his discomfort.

"We're all set, Mr. Barrow. As you know, the family are having a light meal this evening in order to accommodate the staff dinner that Mrs Patmore requested to make for us all."

"Yes. That was good timing, and I am sorry to miss the staff event."

Elsie can't help but note his posture, the way his chest is puffed out a bit, so reminiscent of Charles when he was butler that it takes her off guard.

"Have a seat, Mr. Barrow. Please."

He does sit, grateful.

"I'll be heading out around five, then, if that suits? Back for breakfast, which I hope _you'll_ be enjoying in the comfort of your own home as opposed to rushing here for ours."

"Thank you." She sits back, relaxing a bit in the hopes that he might, too; he does. "I will probably take you up on that. And I'm sorry that you'll miss dinner with us all this evening, too, but I understand."

"Do you?" The words are out of his mouth before he's had a chance to consider them.

"You know I do," she replies quietly. "I do wish you every happiness, and I hope you know that, too. But _please _be careful, Mr. Barrow."

"I shall." He claps his hands on his knees. "Well, then. I think that's about it. I just wanted to be sure everything was set."

They both rise, and Thomas pulls a small package from the pocket of his jacket. He hands it to Elsie.

"I know you manage the staff gifts," he says quietly, "but then, who manages one for you?"

He holds out the gift, waiting, and Elsie extends her hand to receive it.

"Mr. Barrow- " she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Please, don't." His voice is quiet, but firm. "It's nothing terribly dear, but ... But I'm grateful to you, Mrs. Hughes. You've been an integral part in making my transition to butler a relatively smooth one. I'm quite certain that without you, it would have gone bottoms up rather quickly. Well, you and Mr. Carson. But you're _here, _and ..."

"I know what you're trying to say, and I thank you for it." She smiles at him and then glances at her clock. "I need to see Miss Baxter about something, but if there's anything else you need before you leave, just let me know."

"I just spoke with her, actually. I think she's still in the boot room." He smiles, and Elsie sees it for what it is: warm, honest, and openly happy for his friend. "She looks radiant, I will say that. I have a feeling you already know why."

"I'm sure she does, and yes. I do."

They walk to her door, Elsie still clutching the small box he'd given her but wholly unwilling to open it in front of him, for both their sakes.

"You know everything in this house before most other people. I didn't think that would stop with something so happy. I've got to hand it to Molesley; he did a spectacular job of it."

Elsie stands a bit taller at that, so proud of her husband and the part he played in it all that she wasn't sure she could speak.

* * *

Charles hasn't arrived at the Abbey yet when Elsie makes it back to her office, but she knows he'll be there shortly. He's coming for the servants' dinner, and it's an odd twist of fate that Mr. Barrow is missing it. Elsie filled her husband in a couple of days prior about Mr. Barrow's impending holiday absence but she withheld the reason behind it, simply saying he had an other engagement. Something in Charles's eyes told her he understood, but that aspect of Thomas's life is still something he cannot wrap his head or heart around. That's alright, as far as Elsie is concerned. Her husband has made great progress coming to terms with everything else that makes up Thomas Barrow's character, and both men now have more of a mutual respect than they had a year ago. She sees no need to tarnish it with something she knows her husband finds unsavory.

However, that slightly tenuous relationship between the two men is how Elsie knows whatever is contained in the gift she'd been handed is strictly _hers, _and she's grateful not to have Charlie watching her as she opens it.

She doesn't know what she expects, but it most definitely is not the small porcelain bird that she lifts out of the box.

It is, in a word, exquisite. It's a lovely shade of white with black here and there on its feathers.

She sits back slowly, the bird cradled in the palm of her hand as something niggles at the back of her brain. Thomas never does anything without a reason, another way in which he's so very like Charles. Her mind plays back over so many conversations she's had with him this past year, and then over the years before that ...

And then she has it.

She looks at the bird again. "You're a snow bunting, aren't you?"

It had been _years_ ago. Goodness, she has to think about it to remember properly. It was not long after his disastrous foray into black market goods and they were in the servants' yard again, where she would so often find him smoking when she sought a bit of air herself. He'd been feeling tempest-tossed, as if he didn't belong anywhere, and she remembers what she said to him, how she told him he reminded her of a snow bunting, flying frantically here and there in the middle of a storm. She recalls advising him to settle and to fly with the wind and not against it, although she can't remember the exact words she spoke now. But she knows she told him something about how even the snow bunting, frantically trying to keep itself alive and on course, has its place in the world.

She trails her finger over the little bird's head and gets up and places him on her desk. It's such a sweet message from him, an acknowledgement that he does listen and, on a grander scale, that her words matter_._ All the time she takes with them, guiding and listening to and teaching and more ... It _matters._

She hears Charlie's footsteps in the corridor and meets him at her door, smiling when he bends to give her a peck on the cheek despite the fact that the door is open and anyone might see.

"I smell Yorkshire puddings," he announces, and Elsie has to laugh.

"I'm sure you do! She's made them especially for you, you know. They'll probably be out in a few minutes if you can manage one at this early hour."

"There's always room for some things, Elsie."

She pats his stomach lovingly. "Yes, Charlie. And if I know you, you didn't have another bite today besides toast, just in preparation for the festivities."

"As it happens, I did have the last piece of gingerbread," he admits.

"Mm-hm." She gives him a knowing look. "Well, I'm off to finish a few things upstairs, so you're welcome to either keep my chair warm or head into the kitchen."

She squeezes his arm on her way past him, leaving him so she can do a walk-through of the house one last time before the holiday and make sure the guest rooms are ready in case the Dowager ends up spending a night or two.

Charles watches her leave, appreciating that particular view of his wife and knowing that there's an extra sway to her step that she puts there just for him. Shaking his head, he makes his way to the kitchen.

"I knew you'd be back soon," Beryl tells him, and she sets a plate down on the counter. On it is a perfect Yorkshire pudding, glistening underneath a bit of gravy.

"Bless you, Mrs. Patmore." He takes the plate and the fork and napkin she's put down beside it.

Beryl looks at him and chuckles. "Don't you even want a tray to bring that through, Mr. Carson?"

"Well, I'm not going very far."

She watches as he heads to the servants' dining table, sitting in Elsie's usual chair instead of his former one, and shakes her head slowly.

"Will wonders never cease?" she mumbles, and she bustles back to the oven to attend the Christmas goose.

**_TBC_**

* * *

**A/N: I always did like the idea that Thomas and Elsie had a special understanding between them, but it is definitely something Charles doesn't share.**

**I wish to thank each and every one of you for being on board during this cheerfulchelsiechristmas challenge. I know it's a busy time of year, but hopefully these chapters have brought you lovely readers a quick smile amidst all the hustle and bustle of the season. **

**I will post Chapter 26 tomorrow, Christmas Day, and then the Epilogue a day or two after so that I can tie things up. Hopefully most of your questions will be answered, although a few smaller details will be left to your imaginations. xxx**

**CSotA**


	26. Zest

_**25th of December**_

Christmas at Downton Abbey is a splendid thing. There is so much that goes into each and every aspect of it, from the decorating to the tree, lights in windows, and wreaths on the doors. Exquisite, delicious foods of the season produce amazing smells that seem to linger in the kitchen (and, truth be told, the entire downstairs) and it seems to last for weeks upon weeks even though the season is, in actuality, shorter than that by a bit.

Charles walks around the table that someone has set for their dinner. Previously it had been Mrs. Patmore who'd taken care of it all, that year when they were a small group and when he'd barely been able to focus due to Elsie's presence and the excitement that awaited them. But this year he can tell by the precision and care that it must have been Andrew, and Charles can't help but wonder if it's a nod to the fact that he's joining them for the first Christmas as simply the housekeeper's husband and not the butler, if Andrew wanted to show him that there are still standards being upheld. Or it could simply be that the current butler also demands precision, and Charles finds that he prefers that particular rationale. It's nice to think things didn't fall apart again once the royal visit was over and Charles was plunged full-force back into retirement. It was a feeling he'd had when surveying the grounds just a few nights ago, but then again that had been outside and this is _in_, and he's always been much more particular about the smaller details.

Charles sighs happily as he reaches out to tap a spoon one millimeter to the left and remembers the night he and Elsie returned to the cottage together hand in hand once the entire royal visit was over. Things at home certainly hadn't fallen apart, either. He hadn't even bothered packing his things at the Abbey that night, preferring to waste no time returning to his own bed where he could appreciate both his lovely wife and the effect that her spunk and sass had produced in him over the course of those four days.

_That was a good night, _he thinks with a small smile playing about his lips. And something had changed during that week, too, something quite fundamental: Charles Carson had decided that, despite the excitement of the visit and his pride at being asked to oversee it all, he rather _likes_ being retired. Not every minute, of course; some days are endless and dull without Elsie home to talk with or just _be_ with, and there have been days when he's been unbearably lonely - that was the most unexpected part, given that a butler truly lives most of his life in relative solitude, both physically and mentally. But in general, Charles has found he enjoys being able to participate a bit more in village life. He likes having the time to share a pint with Mr. Mason when he feels the desire to do so, or to linger in the library, or even to run to the grocer's and pick up something they've run out of at home. A year of married life has taught him many lessons about being a husband, and some of them have to do with helping his wife now and again ... and the smile on her face when he does so is worth quite a lot to him. He has a routine now, keeping the kitchen tidy and sweeping the floors once Elsie is at work, preparing their dinner once a week, gardening in the warm months and catching up on reading in the winter ones. He was quite bored at times, it's true, but Eve has instantly changed all of that, and she'll fill both his time and his heart in ways he suspected Elsie knew all about the instant she'd put in the request for one of the Sanders family's kittens with Mr. Molesley.

He hears Elsie's footsteps approaching, the swift click of her heels on the floor. She slips into the room and slips her hand into his, giving him a little squeeze and resting her head on his arm.

"And how do you find our table, Charlie?"

"It's perfect," he replies easily. "I see it's set for ten this year. Quite a large crowd."

Elsie gives a slow nod, which he feels against his arm. "Yes. Perhaps for the last time, too."

He looks down at her. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, it's not that much of a stretch. You've retired - for good, this time," she says with a wink. "We're talking about my own retirement. Mr. Molesley's proposed; the Bateses are looking at purchasing the bed and breakfast ..."

"Daisy and Andrew are getting married," he adds, and then he remembers the tenth chair isn't for Thomas Barrow. "And ... then there's Mr. Mason."

"And Mr. Mason," she agrees. "I'll be surprised if most of us haven't moved on a year from now."

"Lady Mary will never be able to replace everyone," Charles says sadly.

Elsie knows where his concern lies. "It would take a great deal to make Anna leave, I agree," she says gently. "But if they take on a business ..."

"Well, perhaps they'll invest in one but not run it full-time. It wouldn't be that different to what we'd originally planned."

She turns and tips her head back a bit to look him in the eyes. "You just don't want to imagine everyone gone from here. It's too much for you, isn't it?"

Charles tilts his head. "Perhaps," he allows.

Elsie says nothing else. The staffing concerns aren't the only major change the Crawleys will have to face in the next year, but Charlie is the last person she needs to remind of that. He's finally managed to pull himself out of the melancholy which had gripped him so fiercely until just a couple of days ago, and she'll not plunge him back into it.

* * *

Later that night, when the goose has been carved and a blessing given, everyone digs in. Beryl has completely outdone herself, truly, and a small part of Elsie wonders if the cook did it as much for Mr. Mason's benefit as for that of the staff.

She looks around the table at her companions. Andy and Daisy are sharing a bit of a joke, Anna stifles a yawn, and John Bates's seat is empty because he's gone up to fetch Johnny from the nursery and prepare him to head home. Charles is making an effort to include Mr. Molesley in the conversation he's having with Mr. Mason, and Elsie sees Miss Baxter sort of taking it all in and wonders if the maid will remain in service after the wedding. Surely she won't, if Lord and Lady Grantham do end up residing full-time in London, but one never knows. There are teaching jobs there, too, she supposes.

The entire scene gives her heart a little lurch. She'll _miss _this when she leaves, and she is painfully aware of Thomas's absence from it all. It isn't lost on her that of all of them, the one who isn't here this evening to celebrate what's likely the last Christmas at Downton for half the people at this table is the only person for whom Downton will still be home and employer for a number of years to come.

_Well, _she amends silently, _him and Daisy. _If that isn't the strangest coincidence, Elsie doesn't know what is. She wonders if Daisy remembers having an ill-advised, schoolgirl crush on Thomas all those years ago.

She slips her left hand over and onto Charlie's knee and he takes it in his without even missing a beat in the conversation he's holding with Joseph Molesley. Elsie remembers the hundreds and hundreds of meals she's spent at this table with Charles just to her left, all the times she wished she could just reach over and touch the man and let him know how she feels.

She squeezes his fingers, grateful.

* * *

"Come on, Charlie. it won't take but a minute." Elsie practically has to push him to the stairs, although in all fairness it's very late and they've both had a long day. "I need to go up anyhow and turn off the lights."

"I suppose someone should check and make sure everything's been locked up properly."

Elsie knows the butler did that before he left, save the front door and the library and great hall, but she keeps silent and nods.

Charles enjoys following her up the stairs, seeing the layers of crinoline and goodness knows what else swishing around her legs. He almost reaches out to touch her, but silence is more important at this juncture than a bit of naughty fun. When they reach the landing, he checks his watch and brushes Elsie's wrist.

"I'll just check everything up on the gallery and you can deal with the tree."

"Alright. It'll take me a few minutes. It appears as though a few things need picking up."

Charles looks over her shoulder and sees a few toys scattered about. "It does look as though the children had a good day."

His eyes are happy at the thought, and Elsie wonders whatever happened to her curmudgeon.

_Perhaps he's just in the Christmas spirit,_ she thinks with a smirk.

Charles walks determinedly, feeling a bit out of place doing this particular job out of normal livery. It's like walking through a world of which he's been part of for such a long, long time but one where he no longer really belongs: he's not the butler any longer, and he's certainly not dressed as smartly as the family who are normally walking about this part of the house. While he doesn't often think of the man at all, Charles can't help but consider this might be how Mr. Branson used to feel in those early days, days when he was more than the chauffeur but barely part of the family.

He looks over the railing and sees Elsie bustling about, straightening two small dolls that he knows belong to Sybbie and Marigold, and he's reminded that whatever he might think about Tom Branson, the man is certainly a full-fledged member of the family _now, _and a wonderful father to his bright, beautiful daughter.

By the time her husband returns to her side, Elsie is finished tidying up. He joins her where she stands looking over the tree one more time.

"There's something a bit more magical about it all in the darkness, isn't there?" Her voice is hushed, hardly a match for the magnificent space in which they're standing.

Charles looks at his wife, appreciating the complete sense of awe on her face. She loves the Christmas season, and the happiness that often flows out of her during the holiday has, this year, finally flowed right into him.

"Charlie." She moves to the right and pulls him gently along. "Here it is."

He watches her point to the ornament she'd spotted the other night. She lifts it off the branch and hands it to him, and his hands are fine tonight so he takes it from her and examines it.

"I suppose it could be her." He examines it a bit more closely, struggling in the low light and holding it at arm's length. "She's smiling."

"I'm sure it is her," Elsie tells him. "Or at least, I've never seen it before."

She takes it from his hands. "She always had such a zest for life, didn't she? When she was younger, I mean. I didn't know her then, or his Lordship's father, really. But I imagine that to be true knowing her _now_."

"She did," he nods. "Much like she is now, yes; there was no getting away with keeping anything from her. She always sorted out the truth." He takes the ornament back and puts it on the tree again. "Did you ask Lady Mary about this? Or her Ladyship?"

"No," she replies quietly. "It's such a personal touch, and I didn't want to be intrusive."

"My money is on Lady Mary," he admits. "I've no doubt she knows the true story behind all of _that_. The Dowager never would have confided such a story to Lady Grantham, nor admitted the truth to her had she been asked."

"Well, _we _all sorted it out when he was here," Elsie reminds her husband. "Still, it does seem the thing Lady Mary would do."

Charles sighs. "I think she's struggling with the idea that her grandmother can't be here forever."

Elsie slips her hand around his waist and leans on him a bit. "She's not the only one."

"No. She's not."

He heaves a deep sigh. "I suppose ..."

Elsie moves to unplug the lights, plunging the hall into a darkness that's only lit by the small lamp on the side table, and that's when it hits him:

Mrs. Adler, the sweet, magical little shop ... the hair pins that were perfect for Elsie - just what he'd been searching for even though he hadn't known it until that moment ... the way Mrs. Adler knew Johnny's name without having been told ... the way she knew Charles when he walked in the door ...

... and the brief mention that she knew the Dowager, too.

Gooseflesh erupts on his arms, and suddenly Charles knows _exactly _who put the ornament on the tree, and where she managed to find such a perfect glimpse of exactly what it was it was that she, herself, had surely been seeking.

"Charlie?"

He turns to his wife, his eyes full of emotion and images he has no words for right now.

"I'm fine," he tells her - the smallest of fibs, but she'll let it slide for now as she always does, knowing her husband so intimately well by now. "Let's go home, Elsie."

She takes his hand, relinquishing it only when they're in her sitting room and then putting on coats, hats, and gloves. The walk back to the cottage doesn't take very long and the air is quite cold. Elsie hears the crunch of the snow beneath their feet and wonders if there's ice hiding beneath it, just waiting for one wrong step on either her or Charlie's part. It's a relief to her when they arrive at home and have made it inside, the door closed firmly behind them.

Eve comes to greet them at the door, and Charles scoops her up, nuzzling her face and smiling when she purrs contentedly in his hands. Elsie scoops out up a bit of food for her, which the kitten eats quickly before retiring for a long snooze by the fire in the extra basket Charles put out for her that morning.

"Are you hungry?" Elsie enquires.

"Not particularly." Charles looks at his wife as she hangs her coat. "Are you?"

She opens her mouth to say something, then decides against whatever it was and shakes her head.

Charlie _knows _that look in her eyes. He draws her close and leans down for a quick kiss.

"Let's go up," he suggests, and she nods.

They undress silently without much care for where their clothing ends up, and the only real sound in the room comes from kisses and the rustling of the fabric. Elsie isn't rushing in tomorrow, and she or Charles can take care of the mess later. It's much more important to her to be attentive to her husband, to appreciate the fine figure he cuts and the way his skin feels beneath her hands, or how he shivers a bit when she drags her fingernails lightly across his back and down from there.

She pulls him toward the bed, climbing in and holding the blanket up for him, and he slides in beside her.

"I love you," he whispers, and she smiles as she reaches out and brushes the back of her hand over his cheek.

"And I, you." She props herself up on her elbow and kisses him deeply, lowering herself again as he moves his body over her before trailing his kisses from her mouth to her chin, that sweet spot behind her ear, the tiny freckles on her shoulder, and further down from there. She gasps, which only serves to fuel the fire he already feels.

Before they're entirely lost to each another, Charles leans up and kisses her on the mouth one more time.

"Next Christmas," he says, "we won't leave the house."

She quirks an eyebrow at him, her heart already racing from the feel of his mouth on so many parts of her body. "Do you promise?"

"Mrs. Carson," he says, "we might not even leave this bedroom."

"We don't have to leave it now," she reminds him, reaching down and caressing him softly and relishing in his swift intake of breath.

"No," he agrees, settling himself over her. "We don't."

They move slowly, with care for one another's pleasure but also with a desire to not rush this night. So many things have changed and will continue to change, but one thing is certain to both of them:

Their lives are filled with so much magic, especially if they slow down long enough to see it.

* * *

**We'll continue with a short epilogue in a couple of days. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter; I think, of all of them, it's my favorite.**

**I wish you all a Christmas filled with joy and love. Thanks to each and every one of you for following this story and sending it your love, to brenna-louise for the beautiful image that graces its description, and to nanokouw for encouraging me to dive into this year's NaNoWriMo and work on this set of cheerfulchelsiechristmas prompts. **

**Blessings to you all. xxx**

**CSotA**


	27. Epilogue

**_April_**

The last of the snow melts just days before the funeral. It's as if the Dowager Countess of Grantham, with one final wave of her hand, struck it from the earth completely. As Elsie looks out the window and examines the field surrounding the cottage, she imagines that she can see the crocuses that will soon dot the landscape with color: a deep, glorious purple spread out over the land. She thinks it rather fitting.

Charles is upstairs in their bedroom, and she can hear him grumbling from where she stands by the kitchen sink. She takes a deep, calming breath before hanging the towel on the hook to dry. It has been a very long week since they heard the news of Lady Violet's passing, and while it wasn't unexpected in the slightest, it has still shaken Charles terribly. Despite knowing her husband inside and out, Elsie was nevertheless a bit startled by his reaction; not by the existence of his grief, no, but by the way in which it had manifested itself so deeply. She'd expected tears, of course, but not the profound, soul-wrenching sobs he'd let out once in the privacy of their bedroom with only his wife to witness the outburst as she tried in vain to soothe him with words of love and comfort, her arms stretched tightly around his shoulders. She'd expected an angry outburst or two, perhaps unkind words falling from his mouth before he could rein them in, but hadn't counted on the small plant pot he'd hurled against the stone wall two days ago when he couldn't get his hands to manage the repotting of her small fern. And she'd expected moodiness, but not the volume of silence that had bled from him these past few days in all the in-between moments, as if he'd feared opening his mouth would only cause words and memories to come forth that would multiply his sorrow.

But today, all of that seems to have simmered down and melted away. Today she has the Charlie she has been waiting for, the one who is suffering quietly and trying to put himself together in order to say one last farewell to one of his favorite people on Earth.

Elsie climbs the stairs quietly and enters the bedroom, stepping for the first time in days into precisely the scene she assumed she'd encounter: Charles, standing before the mirror that hangs over the dresser, swearing a blue streak under his breath as his hands, which have been trembling mercilessly the last few days, refuse to knot his necktie. She steps in front of him and wordlessly moves him away from the dresser, turns his body a bit towards her, and gently pushes aside his hands so that she can take care of the tie herself.

"Thank you," he mutters. "I should have had you shave my face, too."

Elsie glances up to see the small bit of tissue sticking to a red spot by the cleft of his chin, and when she leans back to see more clearly, she spies another tiny cut up by his earlobe.

"Oh, Charlie," she says quietly. "You know I would have."

His face softens for a moment, and he nods once. "I do know, and I should have asked. I thought I'd be fine with the newer razor, though, and you were finishing up from breakfast."

"Well, no matter now." She reaches up and pulls the tissue away gently, grateful to see that the nick is no longer actively bleeding. "I think that'll be alright."

Charles heaves a deep sigh, and Elsie deposits the tissue bit on the dresser and leans into her husband, who in turn wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly. They stay like that for several moments, and Elsie feels him calm in her embrace.

"Better?" she asks eventually.

"Mm, I think so. I'm sorry for the past few days. I've been miserable to be around, I know."

"You've been grieving, Charlie, and we all do that in different ways. We've been fortunate enough these past many years not to have lost anyone special, and it's easy to forget how much it hurts to lose someone you love."

In years past, back when he was the butler to her housekeeper, he'd have scoffed at her use of the word 'love.' But he's not the butler now, and in a few more months she won't be the housekeeper. And he's learned a good deal about what makes up a family, and also about the value of the people he holds dear - and who hold him dear in return.

And so it is that he says nothing but allows his heart to clench and his breath to hitch once again as he squeezes his wife more tightly.

* * *

The church is understandably filled to the brim, with people spilling out onto the stairs as well. But Lady Mary made sure that there was a spot for the Carsons just behind where the family is seated, and Elsie has to admit that she's very touched by that kindness. She holds her husband's hand tightly throughout the entire service, unwilling to let him go for even a moment, knowing that he needs her steadying presence now more than ever before. The familiar prayers and hymns wash over them, a sort of balm in the way they're forever unchanged.

The reception at the Abbey is just for family and staff, and it's Phyllis Baxter's first event to have planned entirely without Elsie's help, a trial of sorts to see if she is up to the task of housekeeper. Elsie is certain she is, although she was a bit surprised Phyllis _wanted_ the job, what with the wedding coming up at Christmastime. But with the road successfully paved by the Carsons and the Bateses for staff living out of the house and still getting their jobs done effectively, the family hadn't needed much convincing; once Phyllis and Joseph are married, she'll move into his cottage, and it's about the same distance from the Abbey as where Charles and Elsie now reside, so there was really no reason to deny the request. It does put Lady Grantham without a lady's maid, to be sure, but as she told Elsie just two weeks before, she'd rather train a new lady's maid than a new housekeeper, particularly given how she and Lord Grantham are now spending so much time in London. In the end, Lady Grantham knew Phyllis wouldn't have remained in the lady's maid position if they were to relocate to London on a permanent basis, so now she can ensure that the woman stays on in the family's employ indefinitely.

"There you are, Mrs. Hughes. Everything alright?"

Elsie turns at Thomas's greeting and smiles gratefully at him. "Lost with the fairies a bit, Mr. Barrow, but I'm back now."

They stand side-by-side, looking out over the gathering. The somber tone has turned to one of jovial reminiscing dotted with the tinkle of laughter, as these things often end up doing. Funeral breakfasts are often a source of good stories with a bit of spunk and fun thrown in, and the Dowager Countess had certainly provided them all with enough of those to last many lifetimes.

"Are you looking forward to retirement, Mrs. Hughes?"

It's an easy question on the surface, but at the same time it's not. Elsie hears curiosity in it and also a bit of apprehension. She forms an answer carefully before speaking.

"I am looking forward to having my days free to spend with Mr. Carson, yes. There will be opportunities to become more involved in certain aspects of village life, and less of a need to rise before the sun does - although I'm not sure I'll ever break _that_ habit," she says with a smirk. "Our time will be our own, although there will certainly be struggles, I'm sure."

She thinks for a bit.

"I'll miss the people so very much, Mr. Barrow. Painfully so, I think, and so I hope you'll all visit from time to time and allow us to do the same."

He nods. "Of course. You'll always be welcome here."

"And you at our cottage, Mr. Barrow. _Thomas. _Please know that."

Thomas inclines his head, turning from her gaze a bit and glancing out over the room again. "I appreciate that more than you know," he tells her quietly, so quietly that she's unsure at first of what he's said.

She reaches over and squeezes his forearm briefly, then lets go. With his hands clasped behind him and his arms therefore hidden, no one in the crowd is any the wiser.

"I must go find Miss Baxter and see if she requires any assistance," Elsie tells him. She can feel his eyes on her as she leaves his side, and for not the first time, she feels a wrench in her heart at the upcoming pain of leaving it all behind.

* * *

_**September**_

Charles lifts the last of the boxes off the small side table in the housekeeper's sitting room. He's been trying to think of it that way and not as 'Elsie's office' for the last month, but it's only begun to stick since she's been taking personal items home over the course of the past week and a half. But some things she couldn't remove early, like the pen and ink set that she uses daily, the small teapot that was her mother's that she still uses on occasion, and the small wedding portrait that she refused to remove from her desk until today.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws the envelope that Elsie has instructed him to leave on the desk for Mrs. Baxter. He knows not what the words say, but knowing his wife, he imagines it to be a combination of practical advice and kind encouragement. The two women are very different in many ways, but in those two things - practicality and kindness - they are nearly identical in as much as Charles can see.

He waits until he hears Mr. Barrow's voice disappear down the corridor, then gives Elsie two or three more minutes to say her goodbyes in the kitchen before he joins her. He's wary of walking in on a scene of open weeping, particularly on the part of the cook, but he's surprised to hear them laughing before he even rounds the corner.

"There you are." Elsie holds her hand out to him in a very uncharacteristic gesture, and he takes it tentatively and ignores the knowing smiles from Daisy and Beryl.

"Seems as though everyone in here is holding up splendidly," he observes, grateful.

"Mrs. Hughes - wait, no, it'll be Mrs. Carson now, finally," Daisy says, "was just telling us that you'll be bringing her for a celebratory dinner this evening."

Charles's eyebrows fly up. "Is that so?" But his eyes are twinkling, and Elsie sees it when he looks at her. "Yes, we'll be going into Thirsk to celebrate. I just didn't want to rush you."

"I think I'm ready, Charlie." She turns to Beryl and Daisy. "We'll see you on Sunday after church, then, Mrs. Patmore?"

"Yes," Beryl says firmly, holding herself together for the sake of her friend. "Dinner at the farm after the service." Her eyes fix on Charles. "Mr. Mason'll be very happy to see you, Mr. Carson. Evidently there's another litter of kittens on the way."

"Information which I will be very happy to pass along at the next library board meeting," Charles replies quickly. "There were a couple of parents asking about where to get one last time we all met."

"Good answer," Elsie adds, and they all laugh. "We've had our hands full with Eve, and I can't imagine having _two _of her."

It's such a comfortable atmosphere, and Elsie is thankful for it, for the lack of tension and sadness that she'd prepared herself to experience.

"Best be on our way," Charles says softly, and she nods. With a kiss to the cheek for each of the women, Elsie turns and takes her husband's arm.

"Let's go home, Mr. Carson," she says brightly.

And, as she leaves the house behind, she _feels_ bright. Her heart is light and joyful for the future, for days spent in bed in her husband's arms and nights spent working steadily away at her knitting while Charlie read quietly by the fire. She looks forward to having their friends over, to weddings (of which she's expecting three now and not just the one she expected a year ago this month), to more children being born, and more time to just be _Elsie_ and not _Mrs. Hughes._

Charles squeezes her hand and tugs it a bit, pulling her over to the side of the path, and he leans down and plants a kiss on her lips.

"Alright, then?" His eyes are full of love and kindness and care, and Elsie basks in it all.

"Absolutely, Charlie. I can't wait to get home and simply be, well ... your wife. To spend the rest of our days never having to part for even a second if we don't want to."

He kisses her again, touches his forehead to hers, and laughs lowly. "That, my dear, would be positively magical."

She leans back and brushes her gloved fingers over his cheek. "Well, a wife can dream, Charlie. A wife can dream."

She takes his arm and they make their way back to the cottage, each looking forward to dinner out, a long and likely very loving night, and not having to wake up at dawn come morning.

_**The End**_

* * *

**I originally didn't plan for an epilogue, but I didn't feel it right to leave everyone hanging regarding the Dowager's passing.**

**I often start a story thinking it'll be about one thing and having it end up being about something completely different by the time it finishes; this story, however, was a rare exception to that rule. This was always meant to be a story about how Charles is struggling with being fully retired after having had the chance to return, albeit briefly, to his former domain; about Elsie, struggling with her own age and the challenges of missing her husband; and about how they both are searching for ways to insert a bit of Christmas magic in the lives of the other (with a little bit of help from their friends and, of course, Mrs. Adler). I hope you have all enjoyed this adventure. **

**I would be remiss in not thanking brenna-louise one more time for being willing to come up with a beautiful cover image for this story in her own signature, sweet, wonderful style, and also Hogwarts Duo, who kept me going as we struggled through some of the weirder prompts together.**

**I'm taking a bit of a fanfic break for the next few months (save one thing I owe a reader and another small thing I owe a story). I wish you all a peaceful, happy, healthy New Year. Thanks for being here with me for the last 30 days or so. xxx**

**CSotA**


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